No Man's Land
by shoreleave
Summary: A mission gone wrong puts Jim at the wrong end of alien observation, helpless and defenseless. After his rescue, he slowly starts to recover, until one unrealized part of the Antosians' handiwork turns his life upside down and threatens to destroy him.
1. Chapter 1

**No Man's Land**

Written jointly by _**shoreleave**_ and **_mijan_**.

**A/N:** Don't let the subject matter fool you. This is an mpreg, but it is NOT crack. If anything, it's a whump, with a good dose of angst and h/c. Specifically, it's a serious attempt to deal with the issues that would come up should a man find himself pregnant as a result of a non-con situation.

Even though the mpreg trope is usually treated as a sort of initially embarrassing, but ultimately awesome surprise that only adds to a relationship, our take on it is different...as you'll see.

* * *

><p><strong>Day Two<strong>

Jim's pretty sure that if he makes it out of this mess, Spock's never going to let him join another landing party. Ever. And Bones won't let him out of his sight for a week.

_If_ he makes it back. Because at this point, if Jim's being honest with himself, he really doesn't think that's likely. He's hanging on, but he's weak and hurting. He can hold out a while longer, if his captors let him, but if Spock doesn't hurry, there's not going to be much of anything left to rescue.

Opening his eyes, he finds that his vision is still horribly blurred. His eyes immediately begin tearing so badly that he can't make out anything clear, but it's enough to see the large brightly-colored shapes that seem to be hurrying toward him. That galvanizes him into action, or at least, as much action as he's capable of performing. He can't walk away or even crawl, not with his knee as useless as it is. But he tries to pull back from them, protecting himself instinctively even though he knows it's futile.

Their hands are on him again, and oh God, he can't take much more of this.

He can't make any sense of the noises around him. His hearing is muffled and distorted, as if he's underwater. When he was first captured, he'd been dragged into some sort of turbolift that moved so fast it felt like freefall. There had been a rapid, intense buildup of pressure behind his eardrums as they'd descended until something had popped like a knife through his head. When the lift had finally stopped, he was cringing on the floor from the searing earache, and blood was trickling from his ears. Now all he can hear is incessant ringing and vague, meaningless sounds.

He still holds a burning hope that his crew will rescue him. Hope is a crazy thing like that. It almost hurts more than the rational - _logical_ - knowledge that he's running out of time, and his chances are slim. He knows that he's deep underground, probably out of sensor reach. He's been here for days now, maybe a week. It's hard to tell. He hasn't had any food in all that time, although they've left water for him every day.

He's sure that Spock will do everything he can to find him and bring him back, and when he's tried every logical possibility, he'll explore all the options that are only minutely probable. He fantasizes about how Spock will explain to Admiral Komack, in his maddeningly calm tone, that there is a 5.25 percent probability that Captain Kirk is being held in an underground structure on Antos II , and that "the fact that the Captain's biosigns do not register on the sensors does not mean, logically, that he is no longer alive." He imagines Scotty recalibrating the sensors, time and time again, inventing new algorithms for the long-range scanners and urging on his "lads and lassies" to heroic achievements.

It helps the time pass, between sessions. It keeps his mind occupied.

But when his thoughts stray to Bones and what he must be doing, all he can envision is the doctor sitting alone in his office in the dim light, an untouched finger of bourbon in the glass in front of him, his head in his hands. It's such a painful image that he can hardly bear to think about it. Bones must be out of his mind with worry. He frets about worst-case scenarios even in the most innocuous situations, so this must be living hell.

He's brought back to his own personal hell as one of his captors puts pressure against his injured shoulder. The hands are roving over his limbs, poking at his skin just enough to make the cuts sear and burn, pressing against his neck. He feels the bile rise in his throat at the alien contact, as they probe and manipulate him like an object. "Take your fucking hands off me, don't _touch _me!" he tells them hoarsely, his voice gravelly and rough from dehydration.

He's pretty sure they can't understand him. He doesn't think they can talk, either, although it's hard to tell with his ears ringing so loudly. From what he could see before his vision was damaged, they don't even have mouths. Big heads and large shiny eyes, nasal slits but no mouth. They just stare at him impassively, no matter what he says, no matter how he explains or pleads or curses.

He tried so hard to communicate at first, by word and pantomime. He used every language he could think of, but he never had any indication that they were paying attention to what came out of his mouth. If they're communicating telepathically, they're not getting through to him. He's always performed dismally on psi assessments, never had an inkling of premonition or clairvoyance. Even so, he made an effort, at the beginning, to concentrate on images of Starfleet, the Federation, and peaceful goodwill. It never seemed to make any impression.

After a time he gave up on the idea of getting a complex message across, falling back on the words and primitive gestures he'd learned when he was younger. _Stop, for God's sake, you fucking cowards! Get your filthy hands _off_ me, just fuck off and crawl back into whatever disgusting shithole on this backwater planet you came from, don't touch me don't touch me don't touch-_

The last few times they've come for him, he rallies himself from his semi-stupor and focuses his thoughts. On the off chance that _they're_ able to read _his_ mind, he projects violent images of torpedoing their villages and smashing their heads with a baseball bat. That never seems to move them, either, but at least it gives him a momentary sense of satisfaction.

He blinks and squints into his murky surroundings, trying desperately to see how many of them there are this time and what equipment they've brought with them. He squirms away from the fingers that are inspecting his ears and probing his aching shoulder. It's a lost battle. They'll do want they want with him, but dammit, he's not just going to lie there without making even a token show of resistance.

It's so fucking ironic. He's a product of Starfleet's advanced training in diplomacy; he knows about conflict management and negotiation. He's trained in First Contact protocols and he's taken the command seminar in interspecies tolerance and cultural sensitivity. Alien species have rights, and he respects them. But _these_ aliens apparently missed the seminar, because all they've been interested in, from the moment they abducted him, was studying him like a specimen in a lab. _Experimenting_ with him. They don't seem to give a shit that Jim objects to being their lab rat.

One of them is prodding his sore stomach, making him groan at the sharp, throbbing pain. It hurts, and worse, it's humiliating and degrading. There isn't a place left on his body that hasn't been touched, not an orifice that hasn't been investigated. He shudders involuntarily, feeling a visceral disgust and loathing for the alien fingers, cool and slim, that have invaded his personal space so relentlessly.

It feels like rape, like a violation of the worst kind, impersonal and intimate and silent.

And the gods who've hated Jim since he was born must be laughing, because every time they touch him, he can't help but be reminded of Bones.

* * *

><p><em>Bones ignores Jim's grumbled protests of <em>Gimme five more minutes, don' have to be up so early, lemme sleep a little more. _He plants a line of kisses along Jim's spine, running his hands up his sides and down his legs, touching him everywhere in a gentle massage until his skin is tingling and he's fully awake. And hard._

_"Fuck you. I was asleep."_

_"Don't be such a lazy ass," Bones drawls, pulling Jim up onto his knees, slicking him up, and pushing into him until Jim is grunting and gasping, coming all over Bones' hand and the sheets. Bones lets out a soft cry and collapses over him._

_"Oof. Lemme breathe a little."_

_Bones rolls obligingly onto his side, keeping one arm tucked around Jim's chest, letting out a sigh of sated pleasure. His lips touch the nape of Jim's neck gently. Face hidden in the shadows, Jim allows himself a smile of contentment. He's still a little shy of revealing just how happy he is that Bones wants to sleep by his side at night and is too impatient to wait for him to wake up in the morning._

_The fact is, he's never had that kind of relationship before, never shared his bed like this. He has firm rules about such things. Never stay the night. Break it off before it's time to commit. Avoid dramatic declarations of love and keep things light._

_With Bones, he's had to edit the rulebook a bit. It's unsettling._

_"Fuck, Bones. I only got four hours of sleep and I'm going down to Antos this morning…"_

_"Darlin', for a guy who keeps sayin' no, you sure were enthusiastic. 'Sides, it gets the endorphins going. Great way to start the day."_

_God, that _drawl_. It's always strongest in the morning, as if Bones has been dreaming all night of his boyhood home and the accent lingers for a few, delicious moments._

_"You're on beta. You can go back to sleep," Jim points out, hauling himself out of bed reluctantly. He always knows his CMO's work schedule, keeping track of his hours just as assiduously as Bones monitors what he eats and how much he sleeps. "I can't. So at least don't bug me about my coffee intake when you're contributing to the problem."_

_"Don't use me as your excuse for your own bad choices, kid."_

_He dresses quickly, and by the time he's ready to head out, Bones is fast asleep again. Jim watches him for a minute, debating whether to wake him up before he goes down with the landing party._

_Then he shakes his head at his own folly. If he needs a goodbye kiss… obviously, he's turning into a sentimental idiot._

* * *

><p>If Jim regrets anything, now that he's probably about to die, it's that he left so much unsaid between them.<p>

He tries to curl onto his side, but his right shoulder and knee release a hot flash of agony. They're dislocated, a product of one of the earlier sessions in which his limbs were twisted and extended to their limits and beyond. The Antosian scientists, if that's what they are, ignored his protests and his groans of pain, apparently intent on making a systematic study of his muscles and joints. He keeps in shape and he's flexible, but holy God, not if his shoulder is twisted and shoved in that direction. Which he told them in no uncertain terms. But they clearly preferred to conduct their own empirical research rather than just taking his word for it.

The dislocations had stumped them. At least they'd left him alone for a while after that, probably to record their observations and think of new vicious experiments.

Hands are placed on his forehead and the back of his neck, cool and soothing. The hands are gentle, and he doesn't want to take any comfort from these alien bastards, but God help him, it feels good and he needs comfort so badly. He leans into the touch with a sigh, closing his eyes. He'll just rest like this for a moment. That's not a real sign of weakness, he decides. Just a brief respite so he can regroup.

He's jerked rudely back into focus as his eyelids are peeled open, first one eye and then another, and a focused beam of light is shone into them, making him wince. Great, as if the blurred vision and tears weren't enough, now he's got flashing lights piercing through the bleary fog. He tries again to turn away, but hands are on him, pinning him in place, sliding under his shoulders and back, grasping his head and legs and feet.

All at once, he's being moved, lifted up and then set down again onto a smooth, flat surface, quickly and efficiently. The movement jars him, and _fuck_, the dull aches in his shoulder, knee, and abdomen flare into hot pain that makes him cry out. _No more._ His body can't take any more. One more session will kill him. He's sure of it. In futile desperation, he kicks out with his good leg and connects with something, but his leg is quickly caught and pushed back down, and his flailing left arm is held in place by strong hands. As if to punish him, one of them presses down on his left thigh, right where they cut him, making him bite his lip to hold in the agony.

His ears are ringing so loudly, the vertigo is back, he can't see what's happening to him, and he's on the verge of panicking. "Don't take me away, don't move me, just leave me alone…" he says, a mixture of defiance and defeat. If he's moved, it's over. No, it's over anyway. It's too late. There will be no rescue. All he wants is to be left alone, to be allowed to die with dignity, instead of succumbing directly under their hands, suffering through any more torment. He just can't handle being in their alien clutches anymore, he doesn't want to be examined or experimented on-

Suddenly his hand is grabbed. And _squeezed._ And then tugged upward, despite his weak efforts to resist, until it's resting on… a cheek, warm and stubbly and rough.

Jim freezes, blinking furiously, wishing he could just _see_ who it is, but he knows it's not the Antosians because their skin is scaly and cold. Reaching higher, he finds a smooth, rounded ear and soft hair, hair that's too long because Bones really needs a haircut and Jim likes to tease him about how he looks so dorky with his old-fashioned part on the side.

"Bones?" The face nods against his hand. He can hardly believe it, but the hand squeezing his good shoulder is strong and reassuring, and _Bones is here_.

The relief is so overwhelming that that he shuts his eyes, letting out a shaky breath. He's not going to die today. Such a simple thought, and it's almost too much. A tear leaks out of his tightly closed eyelids. Bones wipes it away with a gentle finger, and it's that simple gesture that convinces him that yes, finally, he's going home.

* * *

><p><strong>Day Three<strong>

The first thing he realizes, as he struggles back to consciousness, is that he can _hear. _Everything is still a little muted, but he can distinguish individual sounds: a machine emitting regular, soft bleeps, the whirr of a ventilation unit, the sound of his own breathing.

He tries to open his eyes, but something's pressing down on his eyelids. Reaching up with his left hand, he can feel some sort of adhesive bandage. His heart starts racing a little faster at the frightening realization that now he's completely blind.

His left arm feels heavy and slightly encumbered, and there's a niggling ache at the crook of his elbow. An IV unit…. maybe. He tries to reach over with his right arm to feel it, but his arm won't move. It's restrained tightly against his side, and when he pulls it up hard, it triggers a bone-deep ache in his shoulder that makes him hiss in pain. His right leg, also immobile, is strapped to the surface he's lying on.

He's in Sickbay, if his last memories can be relied upon. But he's teased by a gnawing fear that maybe, horribly, he hasn't been rescued at all. Maybe he hallucinated everything and he's still being held captive in some alien medical facility on Antos II.

He tries to hold himself as still as possible, not wanting to draw attention to himself until he knows more. Maybe he's safe... but maybe he's still trapped. Blind and injured, helpless and -

"Jim!" Bones' voice, never more welcome, breaks through his panic. Jim can hear the heavy tread of his boots on the slick floor, hurrying toward him. A hand, large and warm, wraps itself around Jim's bicep like an anchor. "Settle down, I'm right here. Relax, you're okay."

_Bones. _Jim's lips form the word, but no sound comes out. He clears his parched throat and swallows, trying to bring his mouth into working order so that he can speak audibly.

"Here, drink this," Bones tells him, and Jim sucks greedily at the straw that's placed in his mouth. The water is cool and has a slight metallic taste—reclaimed _Enterprise_ water, familiar and safe. The Antosians gave him water, too, but it was slightly salty and warm.

_Calm down,_ Jim tells himself, willing his racing heart to slow. _You're home. _Bones' hand hasn't moved from his upper arm, and Jim's grateful for the steady touch.

"Christ, Jim. I'm sorry. I didn't think the anesthesia would wear off so soon. I wanted to be here when you woke up."

"'S okay," he says, taking a deep breath, letting the sharp, antiseptic smell of Sickbay fill his nostrils. For once, it doesn't make him nauseous, just relieved. "How long was I away?"

"They had you for six days, Jim. Six days… God…" Bones sounds so pained that Jim's glad he can't see his expression. Hearing his voice catch is bad enough.

_I'm fine_, Jim almost says, but that's such a blatant lie that even he, master of denial, can't make the words pass his lips. "I'll be all right," he says instead.

The hand pats his shoulder. "Course you will, kid. I'll make sure of it."

"How'd you find me? I was out of sensor range…"

"Yeah, it was obvious from the get-go that you were being held deep underground. Spock must've ordered a hundred sensor sweeps, and still…nothing. But he's learned a trick or two from you. Managed to hack into their computer system somehow. Uhura and the comms staff worked round the clock, finally deciphered something about a holding facility. We weren't too sure what we were beaming into when we went down, or whether we'd be able to get back out safely…"

"Bet you loved that part," he says, even as part of him is appalled that his crew would risk their lives like that, for _him_.

Bones' chuckle is a little shaky. "I'll admit, by that point I wasn't really thinking about my atoms or Scotty's crazy beaming equations. I was half out of my mind, Jim. I still can't believe we got you back."

"Just in time, too. I was getting pretty hungry," he tries to joke. _Keep it light. _But Bones doesn't laugh in response, and Jim doesn't need to see his face to know that he's frowning.

Bones' hand leaves his arm, and Jim can hear the familiar whirr of the medical tricorder. "How's your hearing?"

"Better. But everything still sounds kind of far away."

"Not surprising. Your eardrums were ruptured and I had to remove the fluid that had built up in the inner ear. You were being held over 800 meters underground, so I'm guessing that the changes in barometric pressure caused the problem. That planet has damned crazy air pressure just on the surface, never mind below ground. Your hearing should come back completely within the next two days."

"What's the matter with my eyes? Why can't I see?"

Jim can feel Bones' fingers checking the seam of the bandage. "It's just a precaution. Your eyes are still very photosensitive and they need to rest. I treated the eye damage, though Lord knows I can't imagine how you got corneal flash burns so far underground."

"Maybe they were trying to see what happens if they flash a bright light at the goddamn lab rat," he says bitterly. "Surprise! He turns blind and starts to cry."

"And why the hell would they do that?"

"They didn't exactly share their reasoning with me."

Bones grunts. "I guess not. Well, we'll check your vision in a few hours, give the medication a chance to work."

It angers him that Bones seems to think that a few additional hours of being blind won't make much of a difference. "If it's just a precaution, take the fucking bandage off. I need to see."

"By _precaution_, I mean that your eyes are gonna heal up just fine if you let them_ rest_, Jim. Do you _want_ to take a chance on them healing wrong?"

Frustrated, he tries to change position, at least. Lying flat on his back like this makes him feel way too vulnerable, but his immobilized limbs don't allow him much range of movement.

_Tied down and sightless_. It's taking so much mental effort to stay calm. It's all he can do to push the images of the last few days out of his mind and continue a civil conversation.

"Hang on a minute, Jim." He can hear Bones fiddling with the equipment, and there's a click of something snapping into place.

Something tugs at the IV line connected to his arm, and he tenses. "Hey, what're you doing?"

"Your blood pressure's a little high, Jim, and your heart's racing."

"That's 'cause I'm in Sickbay. And I can't move. And I'm _blind_ and I can't see what the hell's going on!"

"Relax. I'm just going to give you something to stabilize your sympathetic reactions."

Jim hears the soft hiss-click of a hyposyringe releasing its contents, and his teeth clench in a surge of resentment. "I don't need to be stabilized, dammit!"

"It's my call, kid. And yes, you do." Bones doesn't sound the least bit apologetic.

He feels a wash of dizziness, and all at once his limbs feel heavier, as if the gravity level has suddenly increased. His anxiety is detaching from the rest of him, encased behind a barrier that keeps him numb. Despite his irritation, he can feel himself calming down... physically, at least. He sinks back against the sheets, not sure whether he feels grateful, angry, or perversely betrayed. Right now, he's too exhausted to figure it out, and he just gives in.

"That's better. Jim, do you want to hear the rest of it? We can do this later."

He shakes his head. The medication is helping him feel more in control, and as much as he wants to argue, he needs to know what the damage is. "Keep going. What else did you find?"

"You're really not in such bad shape, physically. You're moderately dehydrated and malnourished, and you've got a bacterial infection. I'm keeping you on IV therapy for the next twenty-four hours, and don't argue with me."

Jim scowls, but he'd expected as much. "Go on."

"Your shoulder and knee were dislocated. Easy enough to reduce, but some of the ligaments were torn. I repaired them in surgery, but you'll need several sessions of ligostim therapy over the next two or three days. That's why the joints are immobilized now."

He can hear that tone in Bones' voice... the one that means he's trying to figure out how to say something, and it won't be good. "All right. What else?"

There's a metallic scrape of a chair being dragged next to the bed, and he feels a whoosh of air as Bones flops into it with a sigh. "Look, Jim… what do you remember from your time on the planet?"

_scaly fingers probing, cold metal pressing into his skin_

Jim keeps his face carefully expressionless. "I remember most of it."

"Most of _what_? What did they do to you?"

Jim has no intention of playing this game. He just got back, and all he wants to do at the moment is create as much mental distance as possible. "Not now, Bones."

"Jim..." His voice is just a bit too tight. "I need to know."

"You're the doctor. I'm sure you can figure it out just fine without my help."

"I know what my eyes and my instruments tell me, Jim. That doesn't explain how it happened. Talk to me, kid."

Jim wishes his eyes were open just so he could squeeze them shut. "How about you give me your best guess."

Bones lets out a soft breath, and Jim can imagine the look on his face. "I found small, partially regenerated incisions on your chest, abdomen, arms and thighs. Deep cuts, some of them down to the bone."

_searing sharp agony and he can't move, can't get away_

He shudders.

"And there are odd bruises all over your body, Jim."

_relentless jabs, piercing skin and muscle and bone_

"What's odd about them?"

"The edges of the bruises are regular, straight in some places and circular in others. If they'd just beaten you, the marks wouldn't look like that. They're almost precise and... surgical in their placement. If I had to guess, I'd say they're a remnant of some kind of alien medical equipment."

Bones pauses, but Jim doesn't say anything. "Is that what happened, Jim?" he asks. "Were they examining you? Running tests?"

"Something like that." Jim says, neither agreeing or disagreeing. His voice sounds flat to his own ears, like it doesn't belong to him.

He can practically hear Bones nod. "I'd guess they examined you from top to bottom. Your senses and responses to stimuli. Your organs. Your muscular and skeletal systems. Probably analyzed your biochemical makeup and cellular structure, too. Anything a scientist without a shred of research ethics would want to know about a completely new life form, inside and out." There's an expectant pause, waiting for Jim to confirm the guess that was much more than just a guess.

"Yeah. Everything."

Bones waits again, but Jim's not going to give him anything more. "All right, Jim," he says finally. "It's clear that your body's been manipulated in ways that it wasn't meant to be, and not gently, either. But there's no evidence of any internal injuries, at least. No permanent damage."

Jim's glad he can't see the look of pity that's sure to be plastered all over the doctor's face. He knows that Bones must have examined every inch of his skin while he was unconscious, and he can put two and two together. He knows Jim's body intimately, and he can imagine, better than anyone else, what must have happened during those six days of captivity.

"I just want to sleep," Jim tells him, when the silence becomes stifling. "Please, Bones, let me rest in my quarters. I want to sleep in my own bed."

"I'm sure you do, but you'll stay here." Bones' voice trembles slightly. "I told you - you're still undergoing treatment and I want you under observation—and on a biobed—for at least the next 24 hours. I want you nearby, Jim."

"You worry too much."

"Physical injuries are only one aspect of what you went through."

Jim turns his head away. "Bones, I'm tired."

"I know you are. You can rest in a minute. Listen to me, kid. You can't just brush this off. You were assaulted. You were held in what amounts to partial sensory deprivation. Come on, Jim - I know you got top marks in the combat psych course you took, so you know full well what that means. You couldn't hear and you could barely see anything. You were isolated and starved."

Put that way, it does sound bad. Bones has never been one to mince words, a quality that Jim appreciates as a commander, but right now he wishes that he'd just back off. "Do we have to do this now? I know what I went through."

Bones places a comforting hand on his shoulder, and it's all Jim can do not to flinch away. He doesn't want to be touched right now, not even by Bones. "Sensory deprivation's no joke. You were alone and confused, and you've been through a lot of trauma. It's going to take a while to recover."

"I know that."

Bones lets out a soft sigh, thick with resignation. "Get some sleep. I'm going to set up a time for you to talk with the ship's counselor tomorrow."

If the bandages were off, he'd be rolling his eyes. "Oh, come on, Bones! I'll feel better after I get some sleep and a decent meal."

"I don't doubt that, but you're not getting out of this one, Jim. Doctor's orders. It's standard procedure following an assault of this nature."

Jim laughs, a rough snort that rips out of his throat and nasal passages. "Really? There's a Starfleet protocol for _this_?" His voice turns sarcastic. "Abductions by aliens for the purposes of medical experimentation should be treated with mandatory counseling. That's fucking impressive."

"You know what I mean."

"Talking about it isn't going to- You honestly think some therapeutic joining and emotional reflections with a shrink will make me _forget_?"

"The point isn't to forget what happened, genius. It's to integrate and move on." Bones' voice takes on a harsher tone. "And I won't clear you for duty unless I know that you're talking this out with a professional. Dr. Dehner is a highly valued member of my staff—and _yours,_ Captain. And you will treat her with appropriate respect and consideration."

"I'll talk to _you_, okay? I will. Just not right now."

"Jim, I'm not giving you a choice about this."

"No. You're my CMO. And my-" He hesitates. He's not sure how to put into words just what Bones is to him. His closest friend? The man who shares his bed? The one person he lets inside his defenses?

He tries another angle. "I need you, Bones. I don't need anybody else."

"I can't be your counselor for this. I'm…" Jim waits, but Bones seems to have reached the same impasse Jim did, and his words hang in the air awkwardly. "I'm here for you, kid," he finishes, sounding more than a little uncomfortable. "But this isn't up for discussion. You'll start seeing the counselor and you'll go back on full duty after she gives her okay."

* * *

><p><strong>Day Twenty-Three<strong>

Three weeks later, he wakes up with a bad case of the runs that sends him flying out of bed to the toilet.

He has to rush to the head again after he's dressed. By this time, he's mostly emptied out, although he spends a good ten minutes doubled over with cramps. He sits there for another few minutes for good measure, until the attack seems to have passed.

Dammit, this is _not_ what he needs. There's a bathroom adjacent to the Bridge, off the ready room, but he's a little worried about having to make an undignified dash in the middle of his shift.

He briefly considers swinging by Sickbay on his way to the Bridge, but… No. Bones only just cleared him for full duty a week ago, following two days of mandatory bed rest and another ten on limited duty. Master diagnostician that he is, Bones will automatically assume that his little bout of diarrhea is some sort of post-traumatic stress, rather than a simple upset stomach. He'll give Jim a knowing, compassionate look, and he'll start pressuring him until Jim admits that he's not _fine._

No, Sickbay is out of the question.

Skipping breakfast is another easy decision. He's had heartburn for the past few days, which was probably an early stage of whatever's gripping his bowels right now. And food just doesn't taste right lately. He's got an odd metallic taste in his mouth all the time, as if he's been sucking on an antique metal coin. This is yet another good reason to avoid Sickbay, because chances are, if Bones finds out—which he inevitably will, since Jim has never been able to lie to him effectively—he'll send him back to that damned counselor for more sessions.

Jim really has no desire for more talks with Dr. Dehner. She's too young and eager to help-she tells him blithely that her dissertation concerned crew reactions to traumatic stress, so she has "an intellectual interest" in the field-and he shuts right down in her presence. He doesn't tell her anything about what happened on Antos II that isn't covered in his official report to HQ, and doesn't breathe a word about his relationship with Bones. But she has an uncanny way of reading him, of seeing right through his surface charm and denial. She tells him that his personal boundaries have been shattered, and that's why he doesn't want to be touched. She also encourages him to control the pace of his recovery, to choose the times and places he's willing to accept skin-on-skin contact.

Much as he resists the idea of counseling—one, because he's never been comfortable talking about his feelings, and two, because he's had his share of useless mandatory counseling, courtesy of the Iowa Department of Corrections—he finds some of her insights and suggestions useful. He resumes his sparring sessions with Sulu, which restore a sense of normalcy and competence to his routine. He plays in the shipwide basketball tournament, and even though Command loses to Botany, 64-52, he feels comfortable enough with the sweaty handclasps and backslaps that are an integral part of any team sport. He allows himself to deliver an occasional pat on the back to Chekov when he performs complicated navigational maneuvers.

But he still flinches away when Bones touches him. Jim needs space, and the doctor needs to hover and push, so by unspoken agreement, Bones stays out of his bed.

* * *

><p>Fortunately, his stomach settles—except for sporadic, threatening gurgles—enough to let him make it through the morning without any embarrassing sprints to the head.<p>

The shift is uneventful. They're mapping an unexplored sector of Beta Quadrant, and Jim really doesn't have much to do other than make sure the ship's pointed in the right direction. He consults occasionally with Spock about the progress of the mapping project, and chisels away at the mountain of backlogged paperwork that never seems to get any smaller.

Bones shows up about halfway through alpha, as he does habitually, barring any medical emergency. He's always claimed that he likes to make his medical report in person. Jim's pretty sure there's more to it than that. The doctor likes to chat with Uhura and needle Spock about this or that human eccentricity, while he keeps a watchful eye on senior staff interactions and morale. If there's a more personal reason for him to visit—like the opportunity to exchange a few quiet words with his captain—Jim's never objected. He's always looked forward to Bones' daily visit on the Bridge.

But today, his presence just grates on Jim's nerves. It means that Jim has to make an effort to be chipper and relaxed so that he doesn't make Bones suspicious. That's hard to do when he's dragging from the bout with diarrhea. He buries himself in a PADD with some overdue forms, hoping to project an I'm-busy-with-captainly-things air of harried impatience.

Bones exchanges a smile with Uhura and crosses the few steps to the captain's chair. "Medical report, Captain."

Jim doesn't look up. "Make it quick, Doctor. I haven't got a lot of time."

"Oh, I'll be quick. Wouldn't want to distract you from"—Bones glances over his shoulder at the screen on his PADD—"the semi-annual inventory of storage area 3C."

Jim refuses to rise to the bait. "Don't read over my shoulder, it's rude. And for your information, storage area 3C happens to be where we keep the raw materials for the food replicators. If I don't get these supply forms to Starbase Sigma on time, you're going to be eating tofu in soy sauce for the next two months."

"Well, I won't keep you long. You might be happy to know that we're finally over the hump with the Circassian flu. No new cases for the last two days, and I've been able to discharge Ensign Ho and Yeoman Rand to quarters."

Jim glances at him briefly and nods. "Anything else?"

"The latest batch of regen solution failed. We've identified a microbe in the air vent in one of the labs." That catches Jim's attention, and he looks up to find Bones giving him one of his clinical looks. _Shit._

"You're sure there's no contamination anywhere else?"

"We scanned the entire system throughout the ship, but the problem seems to be localized. I've ordered the entire ventilation system in the labs decontaminated, so the Auxiliary Sickbay will be out of commission until beta shift tomorrow."

Jim turns back to his PADD, frowning at the supply form as if he's cramming for a test in warp physics. He slants it slightly at an angle so that Bones can't read it so readily. The form has already been completed by the quartermaster and reviewed by Spock; all Jim needs to do is sign it. But Bones doesn't have to know that.

"All right, Doctor. If that's all…"

"Almost all," Bones says calmly. "One more item. But it's confidential. Can I speak to you in your ready room, Captain?"

Jim sighs. Bones wouldn't know subtle if it hypoed him in the neck. "Right away. Let me just finish this report." He lets Bones stew for a few more minutes while he pretends to edit the form, all the while watching him out of the corner of his eye. Bones edges over to Spock and conducts a serious, low-voiced conversation with him, glancing back at Jim occasionally. Great, they're talking about him.

Stalling seems to be backfiring, so Jim sends off the report and stands up. His stomach feels bloated, so maybe it's a good thing he's going to be closer to the head. He tries to project an air of energy and enthusiasm that he doesn't feel. "Let's go, then. Spock, you have the con."

He strides into the ready room. He feels a little shaky, so instead of standing, he perches himself casually on the edge of the table. The doctor trails in after him. "What's on your mind, Bones?"

"You."

"Me? I'm fine."

Goddamn it, there's that look of compassion and concern he's been dreading. "You look like hell, Jim. You're pale and sweating. Spock says you've been working on that damn report for half an hour when all you had to do was add your signature."

"Not that I have to explain my command style to either of you, but periodically I like to actually read the reports I sign."

"Very commendable, Captain." Jim watches glumly as Bones produces a hand-held med scanner and peers at the tiny readout. "And you're borderline hypoglycemic. Why haven't you been eating?"

"I wasn't hungry. Stomach troubles. Nothing out of the ordinary."

"Any pain? Cramps? Nausea?"

Jim shakes his head. "It was probably something I ate, that's all. Or maybe your microbe from the labs attacked my gut. But it's over now."

"You need to drink. And have a light meal, no complex proteins. You hear me, Jim?" His stomach chooses that as the most opportune moment to let out a loud rumble, and Bones laughs. "I'll take that as a yes."

"I'll have a meal sent up. It's nothing, Bones." He feels his bowels tightening reflexively, but keeps his expression carefully neutral.

"If it keeps up for more than 24 hours, you'll need to let me check you over."

"I'm fine. But I'll come see you if it doesn't go away."

There's an implied dismissal in his tone, but Bones refuses to take the hint. Stepping closer, Bones says softly, "You been sleeping okay, kid?"

Truth be known, he's been sleeping more than usual. He's been inexplicably tired lately, falling into bed early and sleeping through the night. If he has nightmares, they haven't woken him. "Yeah, no problems there."

"I miss you, you know. Maybe you and I could shoot some pool tonight."

Jim's mouth quirks up. Bones comes from a family that has a long, Southern tradition of lazy afternoon billiards games accompanied by mint juleps and meandering conversation. His grandfather taught him to play before he was five. And Jim spent way too many hours shooting pool with the other adolescent fuckups in Riverside. They're almost evenly matched, and their games tend to attract a crowd. "I wouldn't say no. Drinks on you, since you're gonna lose anyway."

Bones smirks. "You're the eternal optimist. And I admire the way you don't mind being publicly humiliated in front of your crew. Warms my heart to see it, every time."

"Naw, you just like watching me bend over the table to take a shot."

It's their usual banter, even if both of them know that it's not going to lead to the same sort of late-night activities it used to. But it's a start. He can handle a pool game: good company, a little competition, no pressure. And he wouldn't mind ogling Bones' ass when he leans over, for that matter.

Bones turns to leave. "Eat something, Jim, and take it easy for the rest of your shift. See you tonight."

Jim waits until the turbolift doors slide closed after him. Then his stomach gives another unpleasant lurch, and he makes a hasty retreat to the bathroom.

* * *

><p><strong>Day Thirty<strong>

A week later, and Jim's still dragging. Yesterday he skipped his usual evening run around the perimeter of the saucer, thinking he should take it easy. Even so, it was hard to force himself out of bed in the morning. The diarrhea has continued off and on, but for the last few days it's been accompanied by a vague nausea that starts mid-alpha and stays with him halfway into beta. Eating has lost its appeal.

He finally accepts the fact that he needs some kind of medical intervention. He feels like shit and he can't function like this. "I think I have the Circassian flu," he announces to Chapel when he makes it down to Sickbay that evening. She gestures to an empty bed, and he plunks himself down on it gracelessly, leaning back to let her conduct a basic scan.

He gives her a quick rundown of his symptoms. Glancing up at the readings, she gives him a sympathetic look. "Well, you don't have a fever, Captain, so I doubt it's the flu. But your biostats are borderline low, and you _do_ look sick. I'll call the doctor."

Bones is off duty, so he assumes she means M'Benga. In fact, that was the whole point of choosing this particular hour to visit Sickbay. Bones will be furious when he finds out, if not particularly surprised. Mature behavior has never been Jim's trademark in a medical setting.

To his dismay, Chapel comes back with a frowning Dr. McCoy in tow. "Bones!" Jim says, smiling weakly to cover his consternation. "Uh, glad you're still around…"

"Nice try, Jim. I was on alpha today, which you obviously knew when you decided to come down here at this hour." He fixes Jim with a cold glare. "Luckily, I was still here, working in the lab. And for your information, it wouldn't have mattered anyway, because my staff has standing orders to call me whenever you creep in here hoping for a quick fix."

"Why? You've got a more than competent staff—"

"And you wanted to be captain, so you get a personal physician. One of the perks of the job. Besides, I'm used to your bullshit so it saves time in the long run. Lie back."

Bones grabs Jim's wrist, feeling for a pulse while he watches the cardio stats on the monitor above his head. Bones believes being a doctor means laying his hands on the patient, even when there are more accurate ways of diagnosing. It's an anachronistic quirk that usually draws a sarcastic comment from Jim, but this time, he doesn't find it funny, he finds it intrusive. He wonders how Bones would react if he asked him to warn him before he touches him. Maybe Jim could ask him, just this once, not to use his old-fashioned hands-on approach. The idea of a physical exam is already making him sweat.

Jim tells himself that it's a medical touch, cool and professional, but in a way, that just makes it worse.

"Your blood glucose is pretty low. Chris, get me a hypo with 5 cc's of polystatin. That should relieve some of your symptoms, Jim, the nausea and the shakes…" Bones is frowning, looking at the screen about Jim's head. "But I need to do a full workup. You shouldn't be having these symptoms at all."

Jim makes a half-hearted attempt to avoid the inevitable. "Look, if it's not the flu, let's do the exam another time. The Astro lab's reclibrating the telescope array and I want to be there. I just need to eat a decent meal, I think. I can't if I'm about to puke every time I get near the mess."

Bones is unimpressed. "You _think_, huh. Thanks for the consult. Get undressed." He slams the hypo home, ignoring Jim's yelp of protest.

Bones' idea of a _full workup_ means that Jim has to sit on the biobed, clad only in his briefs, while Bones fires a long series of embarrassing questions at him, mostly about his digestive system and all related aspects. He sends Jim off to piss into a specimen cup. Then he makes him lie on his back while he ignores the perfectly good electronic readouts in order to poke, press, and palpate his abdomen, all the while watching Jim's face for a telltale wince or frown.

"That hurt?"

"Uh…not really."

"Don't try to downplay symptoms. Do you want my help, or don't you?"

"Why don't you just scan me? It would be a lot quicker!" Jim complains. _Fuck_, this is a lot more touching than he bargained for. It's all he can do not to slap Bones' hands away and scramble off the table.

Bones seems to sense his nervousness. He stops, right hand resting lightly on Jim's lower belly. "You okay there, Jim?"

Jim makes an effort to relax. The sooner he lets Bones continue, the sooner it'll be over. "Just do it."

"Then stop squirming. We'll get to the scans in a minute. And imaging is no substitute for the physical exam."

The percussing and probing seem to continue interminably. Bones glances occasionally at the monitors, but mostly he seems to be concentrating on whatever his fingers are telling him.

Finally he steps back. "All right, you can sit up. Your lower abdomen is tender, but I can't detect any masses or fluid accumulation." Jim raises himself up gingerly, feeling his abs tighten protectively over his sensitive innards. _At least that part's over_. His relief is short-lived, though, when he sees Bones reach under the bed to key the privacy screens. "Climb down and bend over the table."

Jim doesn't move.

Bones looks at him in concern, brows furrowed. "C'mon, Jim. You've been through this before." Jim stares down at his hands, breathing slowly. He knows full well what's coming. That's just the problem.

"I'll be quick," Bones soothes. "I know it's not pleasant, but it's the last part of the exam and I need to do it."

"Could you just _slow down_ a little! Just give me a minute."

Bones is silent for a moment, looking at him speculatively. Jim wishes he could just cooperate, because making a big deal of a simple rectal exam is only drawing attention to the fact that he's more traumatized than he's been letting on. _Laugh it off,_ he tells himself. _Tell him you're out of practice. Say you're waiting for a better offer, flowers and dinner at least._ But Bones can surely see his heart racing on the monitor, so it's no use bluffing.

"I know how hard this must be for you," Bones says softly. "Those monsters examined you—"

"_Every_where. I told you. They had instruments…"

_a cold metal probe and a burning pain_

"Hell, Jim. I'm sorry to put you in this position so soon."

_no don't touch me there, take it out take it out_

"Take your time." Bones seems honestly sorry, but he doesn't offer to skip the exam. He just waits, standing at the foot of the bed expectantly.

Jim knows that delaying won't make it easier. "Just get it over with," he says in a tight voice, and steps down from the bed.

* * *

><p>Bones allows Jim to put his clothes back on before he scans him, which at least spares him the indignity of traipsing through Sickbay dressed only in his underwear.<p>

"I thought you scanned me already," Jim complains. They're in Isolation Room Two, which is generally unoccupied. Jim's never actually been in here. The high-resolution screen on the monitor over the bed is huge, at least three times bigger than the ones attached to the regular biobeds.

"It's a cellular imaging scanner. A lot more powerful than the basic units the other beds have," Bones explains, somewhat proudly. "We don't actually use it too often, mostly as a pre-surgery diagnostic. Or in a case like yours, where there's a symptom without a clear cause. Hop on."

Lying back, Jim is unsurprised to discover that the screen is blocked from his view. It's one of the reasons he hates hospitals; he's out of the loop, dependent on what the doctor chooses to tell him. Sighing, he settles into the mattress.

Bones is quiet for a few minutes, occasionally adjusting the device, staring up at the screen. Then he gives a sharp grunt.

"What? You found something already?"

"Maybe... There's a clump of cells in your lower abdomen which seems to be developing abnormally. I need to take a closer look."

"A _tumor_?" Jim yelps. "I have a tumor?"

"Now, I'm not sure yet, Jim," Bones says calmly. "It might just be a cyst, or scar tissue, or a normal process that's replicating a little too fast. I need to do some higher-level imaging…"

"Where is it? Show me." Bones looks at the screen again, purses his lips, then points to an area on Jim's midriff, above his navel. The skin there looks pink and new, recently regenerated. Right where the aliens sliced him open a month ago.

_Fuck._ He might have known it was a souvenir from the mouthless monsters. "Figure it out, Bones. I want to know what's going on." His voice sounds a lot steadier than he feels.

"Christine," the doctor calls out, and she pokes her head around the door. "Get M'Benga."

_It's bad_, Jim thinks.

When M'Benga comes in, Bones briefs him in a few short sentences. Both of them stand by his bed, looking not at him but at the monitor. Jim watches the doctors' faces, scrutinizing them for any hint of what's wrong. Bones looks mostly worried, while M'Benga seems curious and sympathetic.

"Scanner. Increase magnification by a factor of fifty," Bones says.

M'Benga draws in a sharp breath, while Bones' eyes widen and his mouth drops. Then their expressions take on identical masks of professional neutrality, revealing nothing, and Jim knows he's fucked.

"What is it? What's wrong?"

"Hang on, Jim. Another few minutes and we'll let you know. Lie still." Bones doesn't even look at him, never moving his eyes from the screen. Jim sets his jaw and tries not to think about anything, but he's helpless to stop his thoughts from racing back to Antos. The third session... they made that cut in the third session. One deep incision, and he was panicking, desperate to escape the pain, praying for release until he finally, mercifully, blacked out.

The scanning continues. By mutual agreement, it seems, the doctors don't say anything to each other beyond a murmured "Magnify that, here," or "Get a cross-section of this."

Every time he tries to interject "Magnify _what_?" or "Tell me what you see," he's told to lie there quietly, or "Just be patient for a few more minutes." Jim wonders if either of the doctors is monitoring his cardio stats, because he's so freaked out by their behavior that he's probably heading straight for a heart attack.

When the scanning is finally over, Bones flicks off the screen before he can see anything. The doctors retreat to a corner of the room for a whispered conversation. Jim eases down from the biobed, but since Bones and M'Benga seem to be deep in conference, he can't do much but wait. He leans awkwardly against the bed, his eyes on the floor and his arms crossed over his chest.

Geoff M'Benga has a slow, deep voice, and his clipped consonants are easier for Jim to distinguish. Jim can hear occasional words and bits of sentences: "…latched onto the SMA… pancreatic involvement… developmental age…" None of it makes sense to him.

He feels so out of control. Nothing's gone the way he planned, from the minute he stepped into Sickbay. He was hoping to be in and out in ten minutes. A quick antiviral hypo would be a small price to pay, he thought, in exchange for settling his stomach once and for all. Bones wasn't supposed to be here at all, he wasn't supposed to be _examine _Jim, and nobody was supposed to find a tumor. Or worse.

He wonders, for the first time, what this will mean for his command. Cancerous growths are usually nothing to be worried about, easily treated, but this is clearly of alien origin. Whatever it is, it's got Bones upset and worried. Maybe it's an alien parasite that's taking over Jim's body. Or a slow-acting Antosian poison that's spreading insidiously, killing his tissues. Or an untreatable alien fungus that entered through his navel and—

"Jim." Startled, he looks up to see M'Benga walking out and Bones coming toward him. "I want you to take a look at what we found." He gestures toward the screen over the biobed. They stand side by side in front of it. Jim keeps his arms crossed, hoping Bones doesn't notice the way his hands are clenched into fists.

Bones pauses. "This is going to come as something of a shock, I know."

"I can handle it." _I hope._

"Keep in mind that this is highly magnified. It's really not much more than five millimeters long. Just… take a look, and I'll explain everything."

"Stop stalling! Show me already."

"Screen on," Bones says.

It takes him a few seconds to recognize what he's seeing. The image is slightly blurry because of the intense magnification. At first, all he can make out is a curved line of whitish material covered by a translucent sac, like a jellyfish. As he stares in horrified fascination, he realizes that there's a _head_ at one end, large and bulbous with two dark eye spots. The other side seems to be a tail. And in the middle, there's an unmistakably beating heart.

It's _alive_.

Jim throws up all over Bones' boots.

* * *

><p>Bones has obviously decided that Jim needs to be sitting down for the rest of this talk, so they've moved to his office. Jim has an untouched cup of water in front of him. The screen on the CMO's desk holds the same ghastly image that was on the scanner.<p>

"Turn that goddamn screen off."

"Calm down, Jim. We need to look at it because I want you to understand what it is—"

"I understand what it is. I want you to get it _out_! Right now. This evening."

"—and then we're going to talk about some more tests that I need to run before we can make any decisions."

"Decisions?" Jim can't believe what he's hearing. "There's nothing to decide! This isn't some kind of disease, it's something those aliens implanted in me, a parasite or something, and I'm the fucking carrier! I don't care what it takes, I want it gone, and I want done it tonight!"

"I said to calm down, and I mean it!" Bones' voice is sharp enough to cut through his hysteria, and he pushes the water toward Jim. "Drink that. _Now_."

Jim desperately wishes he _could_ calm down, and that this nightmare would somehow disappear. God Almighty, there's a living creature inside him, attached to his organs and growing. He gulps the water down and wipes his mouth with a shaky hand.

"Now listen to me," Bones says, looking at him intently. "You're _not_ having surgery tonight. We need to have a talk, a _calm discussion_. And then you're going to sleep and then I'm going to run some more tests in the morning. And we're not doing anything until I have a better idea of what's going on. Clear?" Jim nods, although he doubts that he's going to be able to sleep at all tonight.

"Good." Bones gestures at the screen, but Jim can't bear to look at it. "Now, do you really understand what you're seeing?"

"What's to understand? It's a baby alien from Antos II, a fucking monster growing inside me!"

"What?" Bones blinks. "No, Jim. You're wrong. What you're seeing isn't alien—"

"The hell it's not! Look at it! Big-headed, curled around like a seahorse. Big eyes and no _mouth_, just like the Antosians. It's one of them, and I want it out of my body!" Bones' lips twitch into something almost resembling a smile, and it infuriates him. "I don't see what's so damn funny."

"Hang on, Jim. I'm sorry. But from what we can tell, that is a _human_ embryo, about four and a half weeks post conception. I admit it looks a little weird right now, but it's developing normally."

"It has a tail," Jim says, feeling a little less sure of himself.

"That's the beginning of the spinal column, kid. And the mouth will show up more clearly in another week or so."

"There's not going to be another week or so!" He shakes his head. "This is insane. I can't be…" The word dies in his throat.

"…pregnant," Bones finishes for him. "I'm afraid that's exactly what you are, Jim."

The words hang in the air between them, horrifying and blunt.

"Magnification forty-five," Bones says, and the image seems to move back. The embryo is still easily identifiable, but now Jim can see a reddish blob looming next to it. "Primitive placenta," Bones says, as if he's lecturing to a room full of med students. The feeling of being a lab exhibit on display hits him again, and he struggles to remind himself that he's safe on his ship. Bones will take care of this.

Bones taps the screen. Another image, less magnified but still incomprehensible to Jim, fills the screen: his organs, if that's what they are, look like large pink blobs, with dark red and blue tubes running among them. Bones points to a smallish, circular blob. "This is some kind of uterine sac," he says. "About the size of a chickpea. The embryo is inside. I didn't detect anything unusual when you came back a month ago, so I'm guessing it was extremely small, just a cluster of cells at the time. We were scanning for injuries. This wouldn't have shown up."

Jim just nods, not trusting his voice._ Get a grip,_ he tells himself firmly_. Stop freaking out and act like a captain._

"See this dark red line? This is the new artery that's supplying the embryo with a blood supply. It's branched off the superior mesenteric artery. The SMA's a major abdominal artery that supplies blood to parts of the intestine, the colon, and the pancreas. I need to do some more tests, but I'm guessing that's the reason you've been having blood sugar fluctuations and abdominal upset."

"Right," Jim says, in an almost normal voice. "Makes sense." There, that's better.

"None of this makes sense, Jim. It shouldn't be possible. But I'm trying to understand the physiology of it."

"So—what, this is a clone? Of _me_?" He laughs, and it sounds a little bit hysterical, even to his own ears. "Awesome. I was a cute kid."

"I need to do some blood tests, analyze the DNA of the embryonic cells before I can tell you if it's a clone or something else. But it's definitely human, Jim, at least structurally and developmentally."

"Well, I'm a _man_, last I looked. And I don't know how long it's been since you took those anatomy classes, but pregnancy wasn't supposed to be on _my _developmental path."

"Jim…" Bones sighs, running a hand through his hair. Then he swivels around to the cabinet behind him, thumbs the lock, and comes back with a bottle and a glass.

Jim takes the glass. "Pour yourself one too, Bones. Don't be shy, you're off duty."

"It's not for you," Bones says, plucking the glass out of his hand. "You just puked your guts out, remember? I'll get you some more water if you want."

"Always the doctor, won't offer liquor to a pregnant guy." Bones just grunts. "Come on, that was a joke."

Jim watches him sip the oily, golden liquid. His fingers are long and graceful—surgeon's hands. Bones is a brilliant doctor, he reminds himself. He'll take care of this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Warning:** This chapter contains references to alien experimentation and graphic descriptions of medical procedures. If you are offended by such material, please don't read.

* * *

><p><strong>Part Two<strong>

**Day Thirty-One**

Leonard looks up in surprise to see Jim standing in the doorway to his office. It's only 0700, half an hour before he's scheduled to arrive. Jim's never been on time, let alone _early_, for a medical appointment in his life. But there's no big mystery here; Jim looks rumpled and red-eyed, as if he's been tossing and turning all night. "You're early," Leonard says. "But come on in."

"Couldn't sleep," Jim tells him with a wry smile. "Thought I'd see if you're here. We could get started early on those damn tests. The sooner you start, the sooner we can cut it out, right?"

Leonard winces at Jim's casual description. "Abdominal surgery isn't like slicing a grapefruit," he says. "I can't just grab a laser scalpel and start cutting, kid. It's complicated, especially when we're looking at something that we've never seen before. That's why we're going to do the scans."

"Whatever. As long as we're both clear that it's coming out _today_." He punctuates the sentence with his that's-an-order command glare.

Rather than arguing with him directly, Leonard deflects. "Never seen you so eager to cooperate in here," he says gruffly. "Motherhood suits you."

"Fuck off."

Leonard pulls himself up heavily from behind his desk, which is covered with journal articles, a PADD he's been jotting notes on, and the remnants of a late-night snack. He's been up most of the night, except for a few hours when he crashed on the cot in the corner. He reviewed as much of the available literature as he could, starting with standard material on in-vitro fertilization, placental endocrinology, and gametic cell manipulation, then delving into the more obscure. Ectopic pregnancy in males had been a brief, unsuccessful fad in the late 2100s, eventually abandoned after none of the pregnancies survived to term, and several of the volunteers had suffered major complications. There's a lot of information, archaic but relevant, but until he knows more about the details of this particular case - _what those bastards did to Jim_ - it's all a crap-shoot. He's made a list of the tests and scans he'll need from Jim this morning, and now they just need to begin. "All right, let's go. This could take a while."

"You've got an hour," Jim informs him. "I'm on duty for alpha." What Jim means is that he doesn't want to be late, because then he'll have to explain why, and the last thing he'll want to do is admit to Spock that he was undergoing tests in Sickbay. Spock is notoriously observant and almost as protective as Leonard where his captain's health is concerned. In fact, it was Spock's quiet comm message to him a week ago that brought Jim's stomach problems to his attention, before his visit to the Bridge.

Even so, Leonard's not going to be rushed. "I'll keep that in mind. But it'll take as long as it takes."

They return to Isolation Two, which has all the equipment he needs and the privacy Jim desperately wants. He's had to enlist Christine's help—he'll need an assistant to help position some of the equipment-but she's mature and discreet. Jim seems to take her presence in stride, greeting her with a nod and a quick, bland smile.

Jim's quiet and cooperative as Leonard draws blood, but stalls when Leonard asks him to remove his uniform shirts. "Why? You let me stay dressed last night when I was on the scanner."

"I'll be doing a few different procedures, not just scanning. The clothes will be in the way."

"So, I'll take them off when we get to that part."

"Don't be stubborn. If I said I want you to take them off, then that's what you need to do."

It's not a major issue, and Jim's right that he can be fully clothed on the imaging scanner, but Leonard doesn't want to give in on this point. Jim's been making bids for control of the situation from the moment he walked in the door — coming early, trying to impose a time limit, and now making a scene about disrobing. It's a familiar tactic, coming from Jim, but not something he can allow in his Sickbay. He needs to stop it now before it snowballs.

He's aware that there's another, more complicated dynamic at play. Jim never used to have a problem with undressing for an exam. For as long as Leonard's known him, Jim's had a physical confidence that makes him envious. Jim's proud of his toned body and is all too aware of the effect his looks have on everyone around him. He smirks and jokes through his physicals, keeping up a light banter with the nurses and generally doing everything he can to annoy the doctor.

Leonard's astute enough to recognize that Jim's flirting is mostly a defense mechanism. He flirts when he's nervous, teases and winks to draw attention away from his own discomfort. And he _is _uncomfortable_; _Jim's had a medical phobia for as long as he's known him. He hates Sickbay with a passion, hides his symptoms, denies that he needs treatment unless it's brutally obvious, and argues about every procedure. Leonard's immune to his whining and manipulations, which is the main reason he's instructed his staff to let _him_ be responsible for treating the captain. His word is law in Sickbay and he never makes idle threats, as Jim has discovered on more than one occasion.

But since Antos, Leonard can sense that things have changed. Jim's confidence is gone, leaving him with no defense mechanisms to cover his phobia. He seems introverted and wary, almost _shy_. Yesterday, during the physical part of the exam, Jim was so jumpy that he could barely lie still. And then he'd completely balked at the idea of a rectal, but wouldn't explain why.

What the _hell_ did they do to him on the planet? And why implant an embryo, of all things?

But now isn't the time for questions; Leonard needs to send a clear message. Yesterday he insisted on going through with the rectal exam, and he doesn't back down now about the clothes. Different people require different approaches in coping with difficult emotions. In Jim's case, the last thing he needs is to be coddled. It would only reinforce his insecurities and make the next time that much harder. "Thought you wanted to get out of here quickly," he prods, and Jim scowls. "Stop wasting time and take your shirts off."

"Fine," Jim says, a muscle jumping in his jaw revealing just how _not _fine he feels with the request. Stripping the shirts off with a practiced motion, he drops them on the chair in a crumpled mess. Then he looks up at Leonard innocently—_See? I'm cooperating!_—and Leonard is suddenly ambushed by a memory of Jim in his quarters, shedding his clothes carelessly over his shoulder as he walks toward the bed.

_"Fold your damn clothes, Jim," he tells him, even as he's entranced by Jim's ease with his body and his casual sexuality._

_Jim laughs. "Nobody's stopping you from picking 'em up. If that's how you really want to spend the next few minutes."_

_"Slob."_

_"You love it."_

_"Darlin', you've got a lot to learn about what I love and what I don't."_

_Jim settles himself next to him on the bed. "So, show me. I'm a quick learner."_

Christine clucks at the captain and picks up the shirts, folding them neatly and placing them back on the chair.

Jim holds himself relatively still as Leonard conducts the first set of scans, mapping his pancreatic processes and his endocrine secretions. Jim keeps his eyes closed as if he's resting, but his fingers tap out an impatient rhythm on the side of the bed.

The scanner follows the program that he ordered, and the preliminary results appear on the screen within seconds. Immersed in the data, he's startled after a few minutes by the soft computerized announcement—_Scan complete_.

"All right, Christine, this set's finished, let's—"

"So we're done?" Jim is already sitting up, jumping down from the bed and reaching for his clothes.

Leonard puts a hand on his arm, holding him back. "Hang on, Jim, we're just getting started. Get back on the bed."

"The scan's finished. I need to be on the Bridge."

Leonard sighs, making an effort to be patient. "Settle down. I told you, I've got a number of tests to run."

"What _for_? You ran blood tests and you did another scan. What more do you need?"

"Cutting into the abdomen is tricky. I need to do a microangiography scan—get a clear image of all the tiny blood vessels in the area, see if I can ligate without complications." The circulatory scan is crucial if he wants to be able to operate safely.

Clearly unhappy, Jim climbs back on the bed. His agitation is palpable, but it's completely understandable. From his point of view, there's a foreign creature invading his body. All he can think about is removing it as soon as possible, and damn the consequences. But Leonard's got to think about the repercussions and the recovery. He doesn't want to leave his captain with a permanent reminder of the experience, like a compromised digestive system or worse.

Jim flinches visibly as Leonard injects him with the contrasting agent. "It'll just allow the scanner to resolve the image better," he explains. "When we finish here, I'll have a perfect 3-D map of the blood vessels around the embryonic sac. It won't hurt."

Jim rolls his eyes. "I don't care if it hurts."

Leonard wants nothing more than to comfort him, to soothe the tension out of his muscles, to hold him until he relaxes. He could ask Christine to step out for a moment after they finish this part, but he doesn't think Jim wants that. He hasn't let Leonard touch him since he came back, hasn't reached out at all. Ostensibly, he's bounced back as quickly as he always does. On the Bridge or in the Rec Room, he jokes and flirts and flashes his usual confident smile. But he always finds an excuse not to be alone with Leonard.

Beautiful, high-resolution images begin flowing across the screen, the arteries in brilliant red and the veins in deep blue. Leonard adjusts the magnifinication so that the embryonic sac is clearly visible, then examines the capillaries branching off it.

And frowns. From yesterday's scans, it had appeared that the sac's blood vessels were fused to the superior mesenteric artery. That would have been bad enough. Now, it's clear that isn't exactly correct, and the location couldn't be more problematic. Hidden between the kidneys, the sac is right at the juncture of the SMA and the abdominal aorta in a complicated webbing of blood vessels and connective tissue. It means that any surgery to remove the sac is going to be dangerous and risky. One wrong incision, and Jim might be left with permanent intestinal or bowel troubles. Or he could bleed out on the table.

He puts these disturbing thoughts aside. He'll study the images later and try to make a workable surgical plan. In the meantime, there's one more procedure he has to conduct: the extraction of cells from the yolk sac for DNA testing.

He's saved this test for last because it's the most intrusive. Jim listens quietly, turning pale as Leonard explains what's involved: first, he'll activate a statis field over his chest and abdomen to ensure that Jim stays absolutely still. Using a microsurgical unit, he'll insert a long, thin needle into the yolk sac, the cluster of cells which is providing nutrients and blood to the developing embryo-

"Enough!" Jim exclaims, his tone loud and belligerent. "I don't want to hear it! Just do it, and stop talking about the fucking embryo and goddamn yolk sac and placenta! Just shut _up_!" He looks like he'd like nothing better than to put his hands over his ears and block out Leonard's voice.

Christine purses her lips, fixing the captain with a disapproving look. She knows that Leonard doesn't tolerate that kind of attitude from any crew member; for that matter, neither does Jim.

"Now look here," Leonard says sternly, "If you don't want to listen to my explanation that's up to you, but-"

"No, I don't want to know. I don't _care_. Just get it over with!"

Gathering what's left of his patience, he says, "Well, you get the gist. Just lie back, it'll only take a minute." He activates the stasis field along Jim's torso, neutralizing the voluntary motor impulses and keeping him immobile. He disinfects the area about eight centimeters above Jim's navel, right where the alien incision was. With Christine's help, he starts to maneuver the equipment into place, and uses the microsurgical scope to position the extraction needle.

When he looks up, Jim's face has gone an unhealthy shade of gray-green, and he's got his lower lip clenched with his teeth. He's staring miserably at the scope, a large mechanical device with a needle looming over his abdomen, and _damn it_, Leonard suddenly realizes that he's an unfeeling moron.

* * *

><p><em>Leonard is almost light-headed with relief when he sees Jim lying on the floor in the corner. He rushes over with the two medics, as the security guards fan out around them in the dimly lit chamber, weapons drawn.<em>

_"Jim!" he calls, his voice muffled and metallic as it's filtered through the barrier of the pressure suit. They're hundreds of meters underground, and Spock was concerned the increased air pressure might adversely affect the rescue team. The planet has an unusually dense atmosphere anyway, and even a shift of a few hundred meters in elevation increases the pressure drastically. So they've beamed in with these bulky, awkward suits, and he's got to wear the damn helmet that makes him sound like a robot._

_Jim is shaking his head, mumbling something, and trying awkwardly to squirm backwards. He's naked, and—God, he looks terrible. Falling to his knees beside him, Leonard can immediately see that his right shoulder and knee are dislocated. His eyes are swollen and red, and tearing so badly that Jim can hardly keep them open. His lips are dry and cracked. He's got five short, incised wounds on different parts of his body. They're not actively bleeding, but they look painful. Strange-looking contusions are peppered over all areas of his exposed skin: hematomas with regular edges and semi-circular abrasions._

_He looks so different from the vibrant, confident man who left only six days earlier._

_"It's me, Jim," Leonard says. He tosses the medikit to one of the medics. "Abrams, get the tricorder out, give me vitals and a basic scan! Wang, get that stretcher ready." Leonard strips off the unwieldy gloves—he _told_ Spock he was being overly cautious, and how can he be a doctor when he can't even use his fingers properly?—and begins his manual examination, trusting his senses and his experience to yield the most critical information. With all due respect to modern medical devices, he believes in the power of a healer's touch._

_He begins a methodical assessment, his hands resting momentarily on Jim's forehead, throat, chest. Airway unobstructed, breathing adequate, pulse steady. He palpates the stomach, careful not to aggravate the incision. "Poor kid, look what they did to you…" Jim acts as if he didn't hear him, just keeps repeating "Leave me alone, leave me alone."_

_Abrams begins reading out Jim's basic lifesigns: heart rate, blood pressure, respiratory rate, and blood gases. Not immediately dangerous, and he's not in shock. "Jim, can you hear me?" Leonard says urgently. "You're safe now. We've got you."_

_Jim doesn't respond to his words, which worries him. He's shaking his head, moaning softly, trying to pull away from Leonard's hands. He seems only semi-alert. Leonard lightly fingers the deep cuts on his chest and abdomen. The edges are swollen and angry-looking, as if a dermal stim device has been applied on the wrong setting, and not for long enough._

_Jim flinches when he touches the cuts. That's good, he thinks. At least he responds appropriately to pain. "Take your fucking hands off me, don't _touch_ me!" he says. His voice is cracked from dehydration._

_Abrams leans over him, trying to catch his eye. "Captain Kirk! Please don't move, you're injured. We'll take care of you, sir."_

_"Get away, goddamn cowards…"_

_He doesn't seem to understand that he's being rescued. "Come on, Jim," Leonard says, frustrated and more than a little worried. He slaps Jim's cheek lightly. "I'm here! It's McCoy. Listen to me, can't you hear—Aw, the hell with it," he says, reaching up to undo the helmet seal. Maybe Jim just can't recognize his voice through the filter, and Leonard can't stand the damn suit anyway._

_As he takes the helmet off, he can feel a painful pressure settling in his inner ears. He shakes his head and swallows, trying to make his ears pop, but the ache remains. Then the smell hits him: sweat, stale urine, and blood. The air is stuffy and too warm. It's nauseating, and he hates to imagine what Jim must have felt, lying here for six days. A week ago, Jim was whole and healthy, grumbling at being woken up—and then groaning in need and pleasure as Leonard thrust into him, fast and hard. Now, he looks like a broken thing, cast aside and left for worthless. It's a gut-wrenching thought.  
><em>

_"Open your eyes, Jim, and look at me… We're taking you back to the _Enterprise_. You'll be there in just a few minutes." The pain in his ears is distracting, but that's irrelevant right now, because Jim needs to hear him and see him clearly. But Jim still doesn't seem to understand, just twists away from his touch and moans._

_"Scan results, Dr. McCoy." Abrams hands him the tricorder._

_Hydration and electrolyte levels dangerously low, no surprise there. Some kind of unidentified pathogen, probably the beginnings of infection from the cuts. Separated shoulder and knee joints, obviously._

_Corneal damage… and tympanic perforation. Shit. Leonard grabs a light from the medikit and checks Jim's eye responses: pupils restricted, like a bad case of photokeratitis. Jim cringes away from the light and tries to bat him away, but Abrams grabs his arm and holds it down. Leonard turns Jim's head to one side and then the other, fingering the dried blood that coats the ear shells._

_Can't hear, can barely see… No wonder Jim's panicking. Even if he's lucid, which he might actually be, he's got no way to understand what's happening to him.  
><em>

_He motions for the medics to bring the stretcher closer, and instructs them where to place their hands. Jim seems to realize he's about to be moved, as his mumbles become a desperate pleading: "Don't take me away, don't move me, just leave me alone…" Abrams exchanges a worried glance with him; her expression is pained._

_They lift him off the floor efficiently, placing him back down on the stretcher as gently as possible, but Jim howls with pain as the movement jars his injured joints. He kicks out furiously, eliciting a painful grunt from Wang as his left foot connects with the medic's side. Wang grabs Jim's ankle and straps it to the stretcher. Abrams quickly applies pressure to the deep cut on his left thigh, which has reopened and is leaking a streak of red. Jim hisses in pain._

_Leonard can feel his throat tightening. Jim's blinking and squinting, obviously trying to see what's happening to him. Damn it, he can't take him back like this, terrified and hurting, still convinced he's in the clutches of those alien barbarians. Jim will need to be placed in a hyperbaric unit the minute they get back to the ship, which, given his current mental state, will certainly be frightening. If he fights it, he'll have to be sedated, which isn't optimal given his weakened condition. But talking to him doesn't help and his eyes are next to useless, so—_

God, I'm a fool.

_Jim's such a tactile person, almost needy in the way he constantly seeks out physical contact. Even when they first met, just off the shuttle, Leonard was startled to find himself on the receiving end of a hearty slap on the back as they parted ways. Even before they became involved, Jim touched him constantly—tapping his arm to get his attention, squeezing his shoulder to convey his affection. And, as Leonard's discovered, Jim's not big on emotional displays, but he's in no hurry in bed. Unlike so many men who only have their eyes on the prize, Jim really seems to enjoy the exploring and stroking part, both before and after._

_Reaching down, he clasps Jim's hand. Jim tries to pull back, but Leonard squeezes his fingers and brings them up to his cheek. He's suddenly aware of how stubbly his jaw is, as he's let his personal grooming go to shit over the past week. Jim tenses, his mouth falling slightly open._

It's me, Jim_, Leonard pleads silently. _Recognize me. I'm here to take you home.

_Jim's hand moves tentatively up, tracing the curvature of his ear—no, not the Vulcan—and letting his fingers run through his hair. "Bones," he breathes. His voice catches, and he clenches his eyes shut._

_Jim's breath hitches, and he's holding Leonard's hand like a lifeline, but the terror has gone out of him. He knows that he's being rescued. Leonard wipes away the wetness under his eyes, wishing he could wipe away the entire experience so easily. He's never seen Jim looking so broken, wrung out and exhausted._

_"It'll be all right," he whispers, knowing that Jim can't hear him, wondering if it's an empty promise._

* * *

><p>"Hold on, Christine." Leonard stands back from the scope and walks around to the head of the biobed, then crouches slightly so he's not hovering quite so high above Jim.<p>

"I told you," Jim bites out, staring at the ceiling, "just get it over with already."

"Jim," he says, keeping his tone soft. He rests a hand on Jim's bicep and gives a light squeeze. When Jim finally looks at him, Leonard nods. "I know you went through hell down there, and that this can't be easy. But I wouldn't do any of this if it wasn't necessary. I'm not doing this to hurt you. I know it looks intimidating, but I promise, the needle is thin enough that you'll barely feel it. This isn't what _they_ did to you. This is _me_, and you're not _there_, okay?"

Jim looks back up at the ceiling, and his expression is detached and haunted. "I know. Just do it."

"Jim," Leonard says again, and once again he waits until Jim makes eye contact. "You're _not there_."

Finally, slowly, Jim nods. "I know, Bones. I just don't like it." His voice is thin and cracked, but Leonard finally feels that he's been given actual patient consent for the first time since Jim walked through the door this morning.

"I know, kid." He gives Jim's arm another quick squeeze, then steps back. "Now let's get this over and done with."

Despite his insistence that this isn't _there_, the images flash through his head as he works, and from the bleak look on Jim's face, he's stuck back on Antos, too. So Leonard talks through it all, trying to keep Jim grounded in the here and now. "Okay, I'm activating the stasis field. All you'll feel is a bit of tingling. It's only temporary, Jim. I'll let you up just as soon as I'm finished and then we're done. You're going straight from here to the mess to eat a decent breakfast, and don't think I won't know if you keep skipping meals."

"I'm not hungry."

"Eat anyway. If your stats don't improve by this evening, I'm giving you a nutrient infusion." He double-checks his scanner screen to see that his equipment is perfectly aligned with his target. "All right, I need you to take a breath and hold it. This is the needle going in."

Jim doesn't move or blink as the needle sinks smoothly through his skin and into his body, and Leonard isn't sure if Jim is actually relaxed, or if he's completely zoned out. He keeps talking. "Just breathe normally, kid. This won't take long, then you're finished for the morning. I'll have a readout of the embryo's DNA makeup by this afternoon, and we'll have some answers…" He says anything and everything that he can think of, even though Jim doesn't respond to any of it. By the time he's done, only a few minutes later, it looks like Jim's mind is halfway across the quadrant.

_Maybe it is._

He sends the cells off for DNA analysis while Jim shrugs back into his shirts. "Come back after your shift," Leonard tells him. "I should have some answers by then."

"Just get it out," is all Jim says, and turns to leave.

Leonard stops him, reaching out to grasp his shoulder. It's the first time he's touched Jim as _Bones_—not as _Dr. McCoy_—since the rescue. He knows that he should probably wait until Jim's ready, or until Jim instigates the contact himself, but Leonard can't hold off anymore. Jim _needs_ the physical comfort, and damn it, so does he.

He tugs on Jim's shoulder until he turns around to face him. "I'll get to the bottom of this, Jim. I'll find a safe way to operate, I promise."

Jim gives him a wan smile. "If you can't, you're fired."

"Spock won't let you fire me. He knows I'm the only one who can keep you in line." He gives the shoulder a tentative squeeze. Jim doesn't meet his eyes, but he doesn't pull away, either. Leonard steps closer. He's itching to wrap his arms around Jim, but he doesn't want to push him too fast. "I'm so sorry, kid. I really am."

"Don't worry about it. I know you're only doing your job."

"I'm not sorry about _that. _I meant about what happened on Antos," he says quietly. "It kills me to think of you going through that."

"It wasn't your fault."

"I know. But I wish I could have prevented this." He checked Jim out thoroughly when they brought him back from the planet, but at the time, he was scanning for injuries and infections. Foreign bacteria and viruses, not a tiny cluster of human cells that _shouldn't have been there anyway_. Obviously, he missed it. There was no reason to scan for something like this. It was unheard of. He couldn't have anticipated it. But _goddammit_, he should have! If he'd caught it when the embryo was smaller, just a few cells and a tiny sac attached to a mere string of a blood vessel, extracting it would have been easy. Now, the uterine sac is a mess of blood vessels and tissue fused to one of the most vital parts of Jim's circulatory system.

Jim slips out of his grip, the ends of his mouth twisting up in an approximation of a grin. "Yeah, life's unfair. If I'm gonna be pregnant, at least I should have had some fun getting knocked up." He slaps Leonard lightly on the back and leaves, striding away with his usual energy.

* * *

><p>"Simulation eleven. Outcome: sac removal successful. Damage to the superior mesenteric artery requiring placement of intra-arterial shunt. Circulatory and pancreatic function compromised, damn it!" Leonard sighs. "Computer, strike the last two words. End recording."<p>

It's a mess. Removing the sac is easy enough, but no matter how Leonard changes the order and placement of the ligations, sealing off the blood vessels one by one, there are always complications. What should be a minor procedure—just clamp off the blood supply, remove the embryonic sac, and seal the blood vessels—fails miserably, time after time in simulations. Usually the complications aren't life-threatening, but he doesn't want to leave Jim with a compromised bowel or pancreas.

"Simulation twelve," he announces, bringing up the 3-D map of blood vessels again. The problem seems to be the way the alien sac has fused onto the artery. Instead of sealing off obediently when he applies the microlaser, the blood vessels seem to rip off pieces of the arterial wall, and then it all falls apart, no matter how he shunts and grafts and redirects the blood flow. This time, he tries injecting the tissue with an angiogenesis inhibitor, preventing the growth of new arteries and veins and restricting the blood supply to the existing capillaries. At first, he's hopeful as the surgery sim proceeds on course, but his lips curl downward as he watches a massive tear appear in the artery, and it all goes to shit.

"Christ," he mutters. "Outcome: sac removed successfully, followed by massive hemorrhage of the abdominal aorta. End recording." _God damn it all to hell._

He's been at this for over two hours, and still hasn't found a surgical plan that gives him consistently good results. Some of the sims are successful, but most of them result in arterial damage, sometimes severe. The odds are bad.

He knows that Jim will be back in a few hours, wanting to hear the magical words "Let's operate," but he needs more time. Jim isn't going to want to hear that, but there's not much he can do just yet. The embryonic sac is, after all, an alien implantation. He needs to run a chemical analysis, maybe take a microbiopsy. The embryo may be human—he hopes—but the sac is a biological mystery, an artificial organ, the product of alien bioengineering. Somehow, it's growing within Jim's body, sprouting a network of new arteries and veins, accommodating to the needs of the tiny embryo within.

The message indicator blinking at the bottom of the screen catches his attention. _Genome map complete_. He taps the screen, feeling a sense of foreboding. He prays that what he told Jim was right—that it's a human embryo, and not some horrifying genetic hybrid.

His fears are unfounded, as it turns out. The DNA sequence is normal. All human, no anomalies. It's a relief, although it raises technical questions—like how the hell did those aliens manage to get ahold of Jim's genetic material, assuming it is, in fact, _his._

Easy enough to check. "Computer, match DNA sequencing with reference sample from James Kirk." While he waits, he runs simulation thirteen. The uterine sac is removed successfully, but a temporarily restricted blood flow in the bowel results in ischemic colitis. _Not good._

He's called into main Sickbay to deal with two engineering ensigns with chemical burns. By the time he gets back, carrying a steaming cup of coffee, the results are waiting.

_Kirk, James T. Match to sample: 50.00%._

That means Jim has contributed half of the embryo's genetic material. He's not carrying a clone, at least, and the other half is human… which raises other questions. Antos II was a First Contact mission, so no other Federation vessels have been in the area before. The most probable source of human DNA, then, is someone else on the ship.

But that doesn't make sense, because only Jim was held captive.

He runs the test anyway, because he needs to rule out all possibilities. "Computer, match DNA sequencing with reference samples from all other crewmembers. Correction: use reference samples from all fully human crewmembers." No sense wasting time testing Spock or Keenser's DNA. The cross-matching is going to take long enough as it is.

Scowling, he returns to the simulator. There's got to be a way to do this without endangering Jim.

* * *

><p>As alpha shift draws to a close, Leonard stands up and stretches. His spine releases a satisfying <em>crack,<em> but he knows it's only a temporary relief.

If there's an easy answer, he hasn't found it yet. The only thing he knows for sure is that he's not going to operate tonight, and not tomorrow, either. And the longer he waits, the more tightly the alien sac will latch onto the arteries, making the operation even more risky, but he needs more time. He needs to devise a safer surgical plan. He needs to better understand the alien bioengineering of the sac and its twisted blood vessels.

Still, there's something else going on here that Leonard doesn't understand. The longer he ponders the results of the genome mapping, the more his thoughts are troubled by Jim's joking remark as he left Sickbay that morning. _Life's unfair_, he'd said. _If I'm gonna be pregnant, at least I should have had some fun getting knocked up. _At the time, he'd taken it as Jim putting on a brave face, laughing in the face of his fear.

Now, though, he thinks that Jim was simply being honest, and Leonard's been an idiot for not recognizing his reactions for what they were. Jim's seething with anger, self-loathing, and _shame. _He's evasive about what happened, and he avoids physical contact. Leonard remembers all too well the acrid smell of sweat, blood, and piss that permeated the underground chamber. Whatever the aliens did to Jim, it was brutal and invasive.

Leonard doesn't want to press him, but as his doctor, he needs more information, and he needs it now. Jim may prefer to push the experience down into the bottom of his psyche, but he's going to have to tell his story. Leonard's pretty sure that he knows what he'll say, because genetic material—sperm cells—can only be obtained in certain ways.

* * *

><p>Jim walks in precisely at shift change, while Leonard's busy briefing M'Benga on the clumsy ensigns. He waves Jim into his office, then tells Geoff, in a low voice, that he'd like to consult with him again later. M'Benga's a chemist and an internist by training. He may be able to provide some insight, look at the problem from a different perspective. And Leonard really needs to be able to talk to someone about it, if only from the medical standpoint.<p>

In his office, Jim is sitting at the side of his desk, his demeanor outwardly calm. He looks up as Leonard enters, and Leonard feels a pang at the hope in his eyes, the longing for assistance that he thinks the doctor will provide. Because he's going to disappoint him, and this conversation isn't going to be easy.

"Computer, lock doors to my access code," Leonard says. He sits across from Jim, feeling a rolling tension in his gut.

"Let's hear it," Jim says. "I can see from your face that it's bad, so just tell me."

"It's not _bad_, Jim. It's complicated."

Jim's gaze hardens. "I don't care how complicated it is. I told you, we're taking it out today. I'm not sitting around with this _thing_ inside me any longer. I can't eat, I can't concentrate, I feel like shit…

"I'll give you something for that when we're finished here. I can treat the symptoms, it's just-"

"I don't want you to treat the fucking _symptoms_, I want you to slice out the root cause!"

"It's not going to happen today."

"Yes, it is!" Jim insists. "I'll make it an order if I have to."

"For God's sake, Jim," he sputters in frustration, "you can't order me to perform surgery if I think it's too damn risky. Don't you think I've been working on this all day? It's not as simple as you think! I've done twenty surgical simulations today, and only _four_ were successful. Thirty percent resulted in arterial damage to the superior mesenteric artery or the abdominal aorta, and forty percent would leave your circulatory system intact but compromise one of your organs, like the pancreas or the bowel."

Jim shakes his head stubbornly. "That's not gonna happen…" He only sounds half-convinced, but there's more than enough desperation to make up for it.

"And ten percent end in you bleeding out on the table! I can't take that chance, not until I know more about the makeup of this organ."

"It's a... a fucking _uterus_, Bones. Haven't they been removing those things safely for centuries?"

"It's not a normal uterus, Jim!"

"No kidding, it's in a _man_."

Leonard clenches his hands into fists, clinging to the sensation of neatly trimmed fingernails biting into his palms. "Jim, the uterine sac is an artificially constructed organ, a product of alien bioengineering technology. I've got no basis of reference in any Terran medical record. The sac is connected directly to the largest artery in your body, and the web of blood vessels is a tangled mess. I need more tests, possibly a biopsy—"

"No more tests!" Jim pushes himself up from the chair and slams his fist down on the desk. "I'll take my chances! You're a good surgeon, better than any computerized sim. You won't let me bleed out. You can fix this, I know you can! And anything would be better than living with this fucking alien parasite growing inside me, with its freakish big head and its goddamn _tail_!"

Leonard's lips tighten. He's not unsympathetic to Jim's reaction, but he's spent years giving patients information that they don't want to hear, and he doesn't believe in sugarcoating the facts. "Sit _down_, Jim. And you don't make the medical decisions around here, I do."

"I was the one who spent a week in that alien torture chamber, not you! And now you're saying that it's still not over, that I have to keep letting them do what they want to me? It's _my_ body!"

"And that's exactly why I'm delaying the surgery! I know what these complications would mean to you, to your captaincy. You don't know what you're asking." He softens his tone, reminding himself that Jim's a victim of a terrible crime, and he has the right to be angry that Leonard can't immediately fix it. "If something goes wrong during surgery, your life would never be the same, kid. I don't want you to end up dependent on medication for the rest of your life or severely restricted in your activities. Or paralyzed. Or dead, for that matter."

Scowling, Jim slumps back into the chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He might not want to hear it, but Leonard has to tell him.

"And it's not an alien parasite. The uterine sac is artificial, but the embryo... genetically, it's one hundred percent human. A healthy 31-day-old embryo, normal in every way—except for how it was implanted."

Jim laughs weakly. "Guess the Antosians missed the part in the manual where the embryo is supposed to be _implanted_ in a loving act between a man and a woman."

"Jim, the embryo is normal, and it's definitely _yours_."

"So it's a clone, then."

"No. I didn't say that. Your DNA accounts for exactly half of the embryo's genetic makeup."

"Oh." Jim takes a deep breath and appears to digest this. "So, who's the mother?"

"Let's call it the other DNA contributor. But before I answer that," he sighs, "I'd like to ask you to do something for me."

Jim rolls his eyes. "Great. I can already tell that it's going to be fun."

"Not fun, but necessary. I need to hear from you exactly what happened on Antos II."

Jim's face shutters down, and the brittle mask is back. "Why?"

Leonard takes a breath, considering his words carefully. He doesn't want to reveal too much of what he knows, not yet. "I need to understand this, Jim. I'm working blind here. You've got a human embryo growing inside you, which means they somehow managed to splice your genetic material with someone else's. Because it's an exact 50/50 split, that means they took the genetic material from gametic cells... sperm cells, not regular cells. You said you remembered most of it, but you never talked about it. At least not to me."

"Not to anyone," he admits. "Not to Dr. Dehner, either. I don't like to think about it."

"I need you to do that now, Jim. For me. No one has to know but me. Anything you tell me will be confidential."

Jim is silent for a long moment. "I don't want you to know," he says, finally. "If I tell you, you won't be able to forget. You'll be..." His sentence trails off, but Leonard can complete it in his mind. _You'll be disgusted. _"You won't want to touch me again."

_He sounds like a rape victim_. The realization pierces him. "Jim, you don't need to carry this alone," he says softly. "Let me help."

There's another interminable pause, until at last Jim nods reluctantly. "All right. But not here, Bones. I can't do it here."

* * *

><p>Jim's quarters are as neat and Spartan as always. Jim may be a slob about his laundry, but he's disciplined about all the rest: his desk is clean except for a PADD and an old-fashioned clock in one corner. The few personal possessions he's brought on board—his books, his Starfleet letter of commission, an assortment of alien artifacts that he's been presented with as diplomatic gifts—are placed in an orderly row on the shelf above his desk. Leonard's always felt that Jim's room is too barren and impersonal, but when he brought it up with him once, Jim just shrugged. "I like the clean space," he said. "It's relaxing. Not like your quarters, with all your junk piled everywhere so you can't even move."<p>

Leonard knew that his own quarters were relatively uncluttered, and he wondered at the remark. It wasn't until the next day, lying on his bed staring around his room, that he understood what Jim had meant. Leonard doesn't have _junk. _He doesn't collect baubles and souvenirs, like so many of the crew, but he does travel with a large set of pictures and holos. Family pics, mostly. Memories of friends and relatives, some long dead, some still close, and others, like his seven-year-old daughter Joanna, simply missing from his life.

It hit him, then, that Jim doesn't seem to have much of a concept of _family_, at least not in the sense the Leonard thinks of it: your people, the ones who share your genes and your history, who know where you come from and accept you as part of that lineage. Jim seems to think of family as something to be overcome and put behind you. Given what little he knows of Jim's childhood, he supposes his attitude makes sense.

Jim does seem to breathe easier once he's inside his quarters, although he pauses uncertainly after he walks in, as if he doesn't know where to put himself. "Let's sit at your desk," Leonard suggests. The only alternative is to sit on the bed, which seems to be the wrong setting for this conversation.

Jim clearly doesn't want too much physical proximity. He places himself behind the desk, so that Leonard has no option but to sit across from him, with the wide table looming protectively between them. With his back to the wall, Jim looks like he's bracing himself for attack.

"You really don't want to hear this, Bones."

"Maybe not, but I have to know. And I want you to get it off your chest, Jim. Just tell me what happened."

"It's not pleasant."

"I'm a doctor. It's not easy to shock me, don't worry. Just tell me."

"Okay." Jim smiles once, briefly, but without any genuine warmth. "Don't say I didn't warn you."

He begins by explaining how he was teamed with Murray, one of the two biologists on the landing party, on a brief reconnaissance jaunt prior to their planned contact with the natives. He describes Murray's shout, just before he collapsed with his hand clapped to his neck. He grabbed for his phaser, but then a point on his own neck was suddenly stinging and burning.

"I blacked out. Next thing I knew, I was lying in a sort of turbolift, going down fast. I could see some of the Antosians around me, but mostly, all I knew was that my hands and feet were tied, my ears were killing me… and I was in deep shit."

Leonard nods; this part of the story is in the captain's report, but he understands that he needs a safe place to start. Murray was later found unconscious but unharmed, their only clue as to what had happened to Jim.

"They left me alone for a long time," Jim continues. "They took my clothes. My ears were ringing and my head was pounding. They gave me a bowl with water, like you'd leave for a dog. They came in once, just to observe me. I was chained, couldn't rush at them. I had to just sit there."

"You must have been scared."

"Scared? You could say that. And angry. And... and just fucking _freaked out_, Bones. It was unnerving, like being an exhibit in a zoo… or a lab experiment. They were scientists, I think, or whatever the local equivalent was." He shakes his head. "One minute we're observing them, making our final preparations for first contact, and the next… the fucking tables are turned."

"But they didn't touch you that first day."

"No, not right away. The first session was on the second day. They came into the room, four of them, and dragged me down the hallway into another room. There was a sort of raised steel platform there. They put me on it and strapped me down." Jim's eyes are averted, as if he can't bear to make eye contact while he's talking. "They started touching me everywhere, examining my skin up close, pulling at my hair, but not hurting me. I guess they'd never seen such smooth skin, or something. It was like that for a while, creepy as fuck, but not really awful. I thought, 'I can handle this.'"

Jim's trained to stay calm in the face of the unknown. More than once, Leonard's been impressed by the way Jim keeps clear-headed under pressure. "I'm sure you tried," he says.

"Yeah. Well, that stage didn't last long. I guess they figured they'd played around enough, and it was time to see what the lab rat could do." He makes a wry face. "They started with that light in my eyes. It was so fucking bright. They forced my eyelids open, and it blinded me for a few minutes, but I could still see well enough, during that session. My eyes didn't get worse until later."

Leonard nods. "Photokeratitis. Like a bad sunburn in your eyes. The symptoms usually show up after a delay."

Jim hardly seems to be listening. "They had instruments… _probes_. Like they wanted to see inside."

"Inside _where_?"

"Everywhere." At Bones' questioning eyebrow, Jim shrugs. "It doesn't matter. Anyway, after they were done, they brought me back to the-"

"Back up, Jim. You said they had probes. What did they do with them?"

"I don't really want to go into it." Jim looks upset, but also embarrassed. "Just use your imagination, okay?"

"Don't dance around it, kid. Just tell me where, exactly. Use simple words."

Jim stares at the floor. "In every _orifice_, okay?" he says quietly. "In my ears, my nose, my mouth. In my dick. In my ass. They weren't gentle."

"I'm sure they weren't, but I want you to describe what they did. Tell me, Jim." He keeps his voice modulated and even, hoping to encourage him, even as he's inwardly horrified. Endoscopy—examining the interior of the body's organs and cavities—is usually done under anesthesia. That clearly wasn't the case here.

"They stuck a tube down my throat. It made me gag… It hurt, I was choking, and it went in too _far_." His voice cracks. "It felt like it went all the way into my chest. I couldn't breathe."

"If they were just starting to study you, they may have had no idea that it was your airway." From the information sent up by the landing party, he knows that the Antosian physiology lacks a mouth cavity. "Not that it's a damned excuse on their part."

But Jim just shakes his head, as if he only partially heard him, and continues. "They shoved a tube up my dick. No lube, no nothing. Made me piss all over myself. Then they flipped me over and pushed something up my ass. It _burned_ and they kept it in, even though by then I was yelling… but they didn't care. I don't know what the hell they were looking for."

"I'm not sure either," he says, although he can make a good guess: exploring the anatomical structure and gathering tissue samples. It's what he would do if he were examining a new form of life, although he'd use an imaging scanner and he'd never do such procedures on a creature that was fully conscious. He can understand the scientific rationale, even if he's nauseated by the way it was done.

"There was more. They started twisting my arms and legs in all directions, like they wanted to test my joints. That was when the dislocations happened. I don't think they expected them to pop out like that."

Leonard nods. "That shoulder goes out all the time. I think I've had to reduce it six times since I've known you."

"Yeah, I tried to tell them that." He sighs. "Anyway, that was the first session. They took me back to the room and left me there for another day, I think. I slept through most of it. I was so tired…"

"That's probably a good thing. You needed the rest." Leonard knows that _'rest' i_s the wrong goddamned word for it, but what else can he say? At least Jim was able to retreat for a few hours.

"The second session was worse. I thought it would be more of the same, and I was ready for that, but it was different. I wasn't strapped down this time. They injected me with something. Not with a hypo—a real needle." His mouth quirks, and he glances up at Leonard with an embarrassed look. "You know me and hypos. Well, I thought I was going to pass out when they shoved that thing into my leg." His smile fades. "And then I couldn't move, not at all. I was awake, though. I could feel everything."

"They gave you a paralytic," Leonard growls, furious. Muscle paralysis without anesthesia—it's barbaric, there's no other word for it. "You could breathe, though, right?"

For a moment, Jim freezes, and then his hand makes a sudden, claw-like movement toward his own throat. He catches himself, and his hand falls away as he shakes his head. "I almost could, but not enough. I was about to pass out, and I was actually happy about that, but those bastards must have decided they didn't want their lab rat dying before they were done with me." He shudders and swallows a couple of times, as if he's trying not to be sick. "Next thing I knew, they were shoving another tube down my throat."

Leonard barely manages to keep himself calm. "Old-fashioned way of ventilating patients," he remarks with measured detachment to hide his anger. Even centuries ago, when it was the only technique available, they didn't do that to patients who were awake. "They intubated you to keep you alive."

Jim gives a rough laugh that sounds more like he's trying not to cry. "I guess they decided they couldn't experiment on a dead specimen. By the end of it, I wished they hadn't, Bones."

"Jim..."

But he shakes his head, and keeps going. "I could hardly see by this point. The light was too harsh and my eyes felt like they were full of sand, itching and tearing… so I mostly kept them closed, but that meant I couldn't tell when they were going to do something." Jim's voice is rising. "I was completely helpless, couldn't talk, couldn't move, couldn't see. And they were _jabbing_ me with these instruments, over and over…"

"What do you mean, jabbing?"

"Poking holes in me." He grabs a stylus off the desk and taps it down sharply in demonstration. "In my arms, my legs, my chest. More than a prick but not a cut. Just a hole, but it _hurt_. And I couldn't see where they were going to do it next."

"Biopsies." That would certainly explain the strange bruises he saw on Jim's skin.

"What?"

"That's what they were doing. Taking biopsies of different tissue types. Getting samples for research." He can't help wincing in sympathy, thinking of the large-bore needle they must have used. Modern nanosurgical techniques used such tiny needles that they were virtually painless. Either these aliens didn't have that technology, or they didn't care whether they hurt their specimen.

"I guess. If you say so."

"Do you remember if they took a biopsy from your testicles? A sperm sample?"

Jim's face flushes. "What do you think, Bones? They were thorough fucking _researchers_."

Leonard waits, but Jim doesn't seem to have anything more to say. "And what about the incisions, Jim?"

"What _about_ them?"

"Tell me how that happened. Please."

"Why is this so damn important to you? Just back off, okay? I've told you enough!"

From the location of the cuts, he can make a fair guess as to their purpose. The incision high on his right thigh would have been for a bone marrow sample. The one on his chest—cardiac muscle, or maybe lung tissue. The abdominal incision would have allowed access to any number of organs. And maybe Jim's right - he's said enough. "I'm sorry, Jim. I can't imagine what it was like for you to go through that—"

"Want me to help you _imagine_ it, Bones?" An ugly, fake smile appears suddenly on his lips, and Leonard knows, with absolute certainty, that he's pushed too hard. "Make sure you've got all the gory details?"

"No, Jim..."

"_Yes,_" he says, with a furious glare. "Because this is _essential_ fucking information, isn't it? Want to feel like you were right there with me?"

"That's not what I meant-"

"Shut up! I'll tell you, because apparently you're dying to know what it was like. So imagine this. You're paralyzed, and you're half-blind. You're naked. You can't hear anything but the ringing in your ears. And you hurt all over, like somebody's been jabbing you with a hypo, up and down your body. Your eyes sting and your shoulder aches and your ass is sore." The words are tumbling out in an anguished rush. "And then you feel something cutting into your leg, deep and sharp, and your nerves are on fire but you can't even _scream_. And there's a needle pushing through the bone, and it _hurts_, Bones." Jim swallows, then adds in a hoarse whisper, "It's really, really bad."

"I know, Jim," he says, because there's no other comfort he can give. "Believe me, I know."

There's a silence, and Leonard watches Jim drag himself back under control. _Better for him to be mad at me than angry at himself,_ he thinks wearily. _He needs the release._

Jim describes the third session in a voice so low that Leonard has to strain to hear him. "They came for me again, and God, I knew what was coming… but I couldn't really fight them, not with my shoulder and knee hurting so badly. So they drugged me with that fucking paralytic again."

"That's enough, kid. You don't have to tell me anymore."

Jim acts like he hasn't even heard him. "They didn't even wait to shove the tube down my throat that time. And then, I could feel them cutting me…" He makes a weak gesture, indicating the spot on his abdomen where Leonard had found the large incision. "Going deeper and deeper. Poking around at things. I couldn't see. I couldn't move. Couldn't even let myself _die_ even if I wanted to. And I wanted to. Fuck, by then, I just wanted it to end. But it didn't. It went on for so long this time, like they were cutting right through me until I finally passed out."

Leonard doesn't want to hear any more of this painful narrative. He's heard enough, and Jim seems to be on the edge of a breakdown. He's got to put a stop to it.

"All right, Jim. Don't… don't say anymore, okay?" Jim just nods, his eyes hollow.

"I'm sorry I had to put you through this, but I needed to know," Leonard adds after a minute. _And you needed to talk about it._

Jim's head twitches in what Leonard guesses was meant to be a shrug. He looks exhausted. "You said you'd tell me whose DNA it is. I want to know."

"Oh…" Leonard takes a deep breath and exhales shakily. "Mine."

"_What_?" Jim's lethargy is quickly replaced by a look of shock. He shakes his head. "Are you sure? That can't be right, Bones. You weren't part of the landing party. You never even came in contact with the Antosians."

"Think about it what you just told me, Jim. Figure it out."

Jim just looks confused, so Leonard waits. After a short pause Jim draws in his breath sharply, and a blush rises in his cheeks. "Oh."

"Right. Sperm can live in the body up to five days following intercourse."

"You woke me up that morning…"

"Exactly."

"Let me get this straight. They found your come in my ass, sucked mine out of my balls, put them together and made a baby."

Leonard grimaces. "That's a really crude description, kid. I figure it involved chromosome mapping and stem cell manipulation to create a cell that would work as an egg... but yeah, I think that's what happened."

Jim starts to laugh. "So you're telling me that I'm pregnant with _our_ baby? You and me, we're the parents?"

It sounds so ludicrous that Leonard has to laugh too, even though it is deeply _not _funny. But they both seem to need a break in the tension.

"Oh, man," Jim gasps. "You're the mother."

Leonard shakes his head. "You're the one carrying the baby, kid. I think that makes _you_ the mom. I'm just the goddamn DNA contributor, remember?"

That makes Jim laugh even harder. He doubles over, gasping for breath, but after a minute Leonard realizes that he's not laughing, he's shaking.

Leonard moves around the desk and kneels beside him, feeling helpless in a way that he's never felt. Jim isn't crying, but he's keening silently, face buried in his hands.

Leonard's a surgeon and a healer, and he's always been able to take care of Jim, no matter how much trouble he gets into or how badly he's been hurt. But these aliens seem to have done something so sinister, so hurtful, that he doesn't know where to begin. There are too many questions and no easy answers.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: **This story is now being written as a full collaboration between _**shoreleave**_ and **_mijan._** Mijan began as my beta and sounding board from the beginning, but after a while, as she offered (and I incorporated) more of her ideas and suggestions, it seemed a natural step for us to write the story as a joint effort... something never of us has ever done before.

Why write together? For those who aren't familiar with **_mijan_**, she's a brilliant and talented writer who made a name for herself in the HP fandom, and has written some of the best reboot fics out there. Look her up... she's on FF net.

So as we discovered, we both love writing long, plotty, psychologically complex character studies. We're both sticklers for canon and obsessive about medical and scientific accuracy. And neither of us can resist a good whump, especially if it's Jim that we're putting through the wringer.

_*evil grin*_

We went back, revised, and reposted parts one and two, so that they now reflect more of mijan's input. Part three is the first part that is truly collaborative, from start to finish. Every sentence here has been written, and rewritten, and fussed over, by the both of us.

We hope that we've managed to make a seamless blend between our writing styles... You can be the judge. At any rate, _we're_ having a blast.

And now... on to the whump!

* * *

><p><strong>Day Thirty-Five<strong>

"Captain's Log, stardate 2259.87. Our survey of the pulsar cluster in the Beta Six sector is proceeding on schedule. The science department has assured me that EM and ionizing radiation levels are within acceptable limits. Astronomy is studying the emission patterns in order to create an analytical model that will accommodate the complex gravitational fluctuations we've been observing. With that, they believe that they'll be able to produce the first gravitationally accurate map of the pulsar cluster on Federation star charts."

Jim swirls his chair slightly to the right, sneaking a glance at his Science Officer, who looks absorbed in his sensor readings. Jim's not fooled. Spock, undoubtedly, is listening to every word, ready with a prompt correction should the captain demonstrate an imperfect grasp of the science. Taking a deep breath, he continues, "The mapping of the Beta Six pulsar cluster has been difficult due to the unusual density of these stars within a very small region of space. While the gravitational forces would make exploration into the cluster impractical, mapping the phenomenon will provide insights into the structure of space within the sector, and data for further scientific research. We'll remain in this area for at least another seven days. End recording."

Spock has a vaguely surprised look on his face, as if he didn't really expect Jim to get it right. It's amusing, if somewhat insulting. "Anything to add, Mr. Spock?"

"Not at all, Captain. Your summary was accurate. You seem to have a grasp of the major issues."

It's a rare compliment, and Jim relaxes, just a bit. "I've always been interested in astronomy," he admits. "Used to watch the stars a lot, as a kid. Especially when my mom was up there."

"Your mother is still serving as Science Officer aboard the _Nelson, _I believe?" Jim nods. "Then I assume she instructed you?"

"No, no." That draws a wry grin. Not that Jim's mother wouldn't have been happy to do it, but by the time Jim was old enough to show any interest in science, he was _also_ old enough to reject all of her hopeful offers to teach him. "I was more of an independent learner, I guess."

_Independent learner_ is a good euphemism. Jim has always been a voracious reader, curious and eager to learn, but impatient with the pace of his classmates. After his first few years in school, putting up with the stifling structure became harder and harder. Nothing his uncle tried-from late-night, horribly expensive, subspace guilt-trips from his mom, to doubled chores and physical threats-could make him sit still in class or do his homework, unless he was really interested in the subject.

It used to drive Bones up a wall, that first semester at the Academy. Jim's attitude toward attending classes was much too casual, in the opinion of his instructors, who thought it showed arrogance and a lack of discipline. Bones didn't care about that, but he _did_ object to the demerits that Jim racked up, which left him stuck on campus on more than one weekend, buried under extra assignments. "Just go to the classes. It won't kill you to be a little bored," he told him once in exasperation. "Toe the goddamn line for once, and you'll be free on Saturday nights like everybody else."

"I'm not like everybody else."

"Get that smug look off your face. You're more stubborn than any ten cadets put together. No sense of self-preservation at all."

Bones' opinion of him probably hasn't changed much, Jim thinks. He's a captain now, but toeing the line still doesn't come easy to him. Rules have always seemed more like guidelines, open to debate and flexible interpretation. If something works, who cares if it's _by the book_? Jim hasn't really followed the rules since he was a kid, and it's worked for him so far.

In fact, sometimes it works brilliantly. After a semester of screwing up, Jim took his tactics classes by storm, showing that there was more to him than his tarnished personal history and a last name that overshadowed him. He'd ripped apart a thesis presentation from a graduating senior, comparing the other cadet's analysis of fleet maneuvers to the failed tactics of military forces from ancient Europe to post-industrial Andorians. Then, he'd iced that cake by putting what he'd learned to use, implementing that senior's proposed model during a training maneuver. It had been successful, and when challenged by his instructors to explain why he'd used a tactical approach that he'd debunked himself, his response was simple: because they hadn't expected it.

Jim loves the unexpected: to be unpredictable, and to do it with spectacular results. Hell, in the end, he even received a commendation for his unorthodox solution to the Kobayashi Maru.

And now he has objective proof that he's not like everybody else. _Growing_ proof, already 7.5 mm long, according to Bones.

Jim's been trying to keep his mind off it, but it's hard. Bones keeps insisting that he come down to Sickbay for "just one more" test or scan, which always seems to lead to another consult with M'Benga and, ultimately, no progress. Bones is still looking for a safe way to operate, and in the meantime, Jim's had to fall back on his usual coping strategies. He doesn't avoid Sickbay, but he doesn't rush down there every time he's called, either. He sticks to his routine, and he concentrates on his work.

He's making a lazy circuit around the Bridge a short while later, feet treading the comfortable pattern, when Uhura is suddenly in front of him. "Lieutenant?"

"Captain," she greets him in her usual clipped manner, with a strong hint of enthusiasm behind it. "I wanted to show you what we've been picking up on the main communications array."

Trying not to appear startled by her abrupt appearance or rushed demeanor, he nods, and is rewarded with a PADD being thrust into his hands.

Uhura leans over and taps the screen. A display enlarges, showing an oscillating graph of... something. Jim is having a hard time focusing on the screen beyond his sudden awareness of Uhura's perfume. It seems stronger than usual. "We've been working with Astronomy, using the communications array to track the subspace and radio wave frequencies from the pulsar cluster. The team in the Astronomy lab believes it will help map the cluster more accurately."

"That's... interesting." The perfume is causing a rise of nausea. He swallows tightly, and tries to lean back a tiny bit, hoping for fresher air. "And what did you find?"

"Well, scientists used to refer to nebulae and star clusters as if they were 'singing' because of some of the unique frequency combinations, but if you look here," she says, leaning in again, and pointing to some part of the graph that Jim can't quite get his eyes to focus on, "you can see where the subspace and radio frequency patterns from this pulsar cluster actually achieve classic Pythagorean harmonics! Sure, stellar cartography will be happy as long as they can turn it into a map, but the rest of us have never seen something this... well, for those of us with a sense of aesthetics... it's actually quite beautiful." She reins herself in and quips a prim, "Captain." Then she smiles. "I thought you might like to take a look."

Jim's throat is clamping painfully, but he _can't_ gag in front of her. What the hell is the matter with him? "Good work, Uhura. Let me have a look at this," he says, turning back toward his chair, hoping she'll reclaim her own seat which is at least three meters away from him. The command chair has access to Bridge environmental controls; maybe he can increase the ventilation rate without anyone noticing.

He sinks into the chair. A gnawing fatigue is seeping through his limbs. It's only halfway through alpha, and already he's beat. He balances the PADD on his lap and tries to concentrate on radio harmonics and oscillating subspace frequencies.

Thankfully, after a minute the nausea fades, and he can breathe easier. He's aware of Uhura's watchful gaze on him. She's giving him a suspicious look, and _shit, _that was definitely a meaningful flick of her eyes in Spock's direction.

Spock's at his shoulder seconds later, speaking quietly. "Captain, do you feel ill?"

"No!" he blurts automatically. "I'm fine."

There it goes...the _eyebrow._ Can all Vulcans do that, or is it just Spock? "You look pale. You seem fatigued, and you have been staring at the same screen for over two minutes."

Damn him and his powers of observation. Jim flips the PADD over-Bones obviously isn't the only one who likes to read over his shoulder-and swivels his chair in Spock's direction. "What are you implying? That I'm not doing my job?"

"Merely that you do not seem to be assimilating information at your normally rapid rate," Spock says calmly, oblivious to Jim's irritation.

He's got to put on a better show than this, if Uhura's perfume is making him retch and Spock can tell his concentration's shot. Jim sits up a little straighter. "Well, maybe I'm a little tired. It's nothing to worry about."

The eyebrow returns to a more neutral position, but Jim can detect the faintest downturn at the corners of Spock's mouth.

"Really, Spock, we've been mapping a star cluster. It gets a bit dull, and the human mind tends to wander." He flashes a self-effacing grin. "I'm starting to think they sent us on this mission just to keep me out of trouble for a while." _Or because they think it's all I can handle after the Antos mess._

"That is hardly the case, Captain," Spock replies without hesitation. "We have been scheduled to study and map the Beta Six pulsar cluster since the set of orders we received seven months, three weeks, and two days ago."

"Almost eight months ago, you mean."

"That is not a precise figure." It seems Jim's sacrasm is wasted on the First Officer. At least Chekov laughs softly from his station, not quite muffling it with a cough.

"Well then," Jim continues, keeping his voice casual, "whether or not we were scheduled for it, it's not exactly the most exciting mission in the world. Good way to find one's _information assimilation_ lagging."

"I would argue that mapping what appears to be a completely unique astronomical phenomenon is quite intellectually stimulating, but in your case..." Spock lowers his voice slightly. "Perhaps it would be prudent to use the time to rest and recover from your previous ordeal."

Jim glares at him.

"Or not. And you are correct. I have observed that you tend to lag behind your typical level of performance when a task does not provide an intellectual challenge or incite your curiosity." His head quirks slightly. "However illogical that may be, of course."

Jim forces a broad grin. "That's exactly it, Spock," he said, standing with a slow stretch to hide just how tired he really is. "You know, you might just be right. Maybe I should pique the intellectual curiosity a bit and head down to-"

"McCoy to Bridge," a familiar voice interrupts. Jim slumps back into his chair, trying to keep the annoyance out of his expression. He taps the blinking indicator on the arm of his command chair. Bones' sour visage fills the small screen that shoots up in response. "Jim, I've got something to discuss with you. I need you down here when you've got a moment." It's the doctor's way of being discreet, but surely Spock's noticed that the CMO seems to want to _discuss_ things with the captain a lot lately. And not on the Bridge.

Bones is frowning slightly as he speaks, giving Jim his clinical once-over. By the look on his face, Jim's failing to impress him. "Can it wait, doctor? I'm on my way to Astrophysics. Might take a few hours." Then, with a grin, he adds, "The pulsar's a pretty amazing anomaly. We've picked up some incredible radio frequency harmonics on the communications array. Completely unique, and previously seen only in theoretical models. I wanted to go take a closer look down in the lab." Out of the corner of his eye, he can see Uhura smiling in satisfaction.

"Well, it's not _urgent,_ but it's something that needs to be brought to your attention. Sooner rather than later, Jim," he clarifies.

"I'll be there when I can. Kirk out." No doubt the doctor's thought of another embarrassing test or wants to explain how the situation has just gotten even more complicated and risky. "Mr. Spock, you have the con," he announces, jumping up from the chair and striding toward the turbolift. "I'm sure the astronomers will be able to provide me with some intellectual challenge."

* * *

><p>At first, Jim wonders if he's walked into a dance club, not the Stellar Cartography lab. There are pulsing lights coming from the main viewscreen, flashing in time to what almost sounds like music. <em>Strange<em> music. A rhythmic beat, punctuated by flickering lights, undercut by low, vibrating tones. And it's_ loud._

"Dobbs, reset the playback loop and run the recording at two percent actual speed."

Jim finally looks past the flashing lights to see the astronomy and stellar cartography personnel scattered around the lab, some leaning over computer terminals, and some watching the viewscreen with rapt intent. He catches the eye of Lieutenant Commander Cheng, head of Astrophysics, who just gave that order. Cheng waves him over, and he steps up alongside her just as the rhythm in the room changes drastically. The beat is much slower, and now he can hear details between the main beats. It's incredibly complex, and just as Uhura said, it's beautiful.

"Captain," Cheng greets him with a broad smile. "Welcome to the disco."

He can't help but smile back. "I've always liked retro clubs. I should come down here more often."

She reaches over to the main control board and adjusts a few controls. "It's not usually this exciting. We're accumulating a huge amount of information from the readings from the pulsar cluster, but we need to organize it into a coherent picture. We could do this with the digital readouts and raw calculations alone, but this way is more fun." She tilts her head towards the screen. "And we seem to pick up more nuances when we can hear it and see it."

"Pythagorean harmonics, Uhura was telling me. Music in the spheres."

"Yes, Captain. And we're about to try filtering out some of the extraneous emissions, see if that gives us a working model. You're just in time." She makes one more adjustment, then calls out, "Okay, Dobbs, let's try it." To the captain, she explains, "Now we're going to isolate the gamma, delta, and gravimetric emissions and chart them against the modified space-time matrix. We'll correct for synergistic and deleterious wave functions."

Some of the tones and beats of the audio playback fade out, leaving a clearer set of notes, startlingly harmonious and almost soothing. On the secondary viewscreen, a three dimensional chart of the pulsar cluster changes. The positions of the stars shift, and the lines representing their orbits resolve into a coherent network. Throughout the lab, he can hear a chorus of cheers, whoops, and clapping, and he thinks that's Ensign Ortiz doing a victory dance down by the sensor array station.

Jim steps closer to the viewscreen, marveling at the chart. "You were able to pin down the gravitational field," he says, not hiding his appreciation. "I see what you did. You started with the radiation emissions and worked backwards to chart the gravitational structure of the pulsar cluster. From what I know, most stellar cartography work starts with the space-time gravitational structure and then maps the emissions against it. The pulsars didn't work with that model." He glances back at Cheng for confirmation.

"That's pretty impressive, Captain. I didn't know you were interested in astrophysics. Most command officers just know enough to keep them out of the labs."

"I'm just an amateur, Commander. But I do like to read." He tilts his head towards the screen. "Besides, I can't let myself look clueless when I brief headquarters about our mission, right?"

Cheng laughs. "I would hope not." She moves to stand next to him, then expands one region of the display for a better view of some of the pulsar orbits. "The research will be valuable from a purely scientific stance, but it has practical applications as well."

Jim nods. "Absolutely. It will make travel through these regions safer. Your team has done some excellent work."

He feels a warm surge of confidence. For the first time in weeks, Jim feels like he's back in his element. He's in command, he's fully knowledgeable about the operation, and he's seeing something new and amazing. "And you might want to make a recording of this stuff for the crew lounge. It's got a decent dance beat."

"Aye, Captain!" Ensign Ortiz says happily from his spot by the sensor array controls. He's still bouncing slightly to the beat.

Jim laughs. "So, am I interrupting anything too vital?"

Cheng shakes her head. "We've just finished these modifications, and now we've got to let the sensor sweep run for about two hours with the new settings."

"So why don't you show me what you've been up to. The reports I've been getting don't cover everything." Spock was right, he thinks. On the Bridge, far from the action, he was bored. Here in the lab, though, there are things he can learn, and the Astronomy staff can strut their stuff in front of the Captain, which they don't get to do too often. Win-win all around.

"I'd be happy to, Captain. Ortiz, turn the volume down so we can hear each other!" She begins leading him around the lab, explaining the various aspects of their study of the pulsar cluster. `

The research is sophisticated, and Jim lets himself get lost in the information as he enjoys the bizarre yet pleasant music of the sensor recordings. As he follows along, he finds himself wondering what his mother would think of the findings. She has a particular love of unique natural phenomena and the unusual quirks of space exploration, and she always seems to savor it with the eye of both a scientist and an aesthete. So maybe he got his knowledge of science and space from his own reading, but he's sure he got his love of it from his mother. Maybe he'll send her a recording of the music from the cluster.

_Maybe I could talk to her about what's going on_. The thought jumps unbidden into his mind, and just as quickly, he squashes it. It's been years since he came to his mother for advice about anything. And telling her about the embryo would inevitably mean explaining what happened on Antos II, and about Bones. He can't imagine that discussion happening on a shaky subspace connection, if he can even do it at all.

_"Mom, I'm pregnant."_ No, that conversation is _not_ going to happen. This is a temporary situation, and Bones will fix it soon. He doesn't need his mother's sympathy or pity. He just needs to move past this.

And for now, he needs to pay attention to the complex orbit pattern Commander Cheng is explaining. Five pulsars locked into a single, stable, cloverleaf-shaped orbit. Jim grins. It's really kind of awesome. The beat flows through him, energizing him.

It's the perfect escape.

* * *

><p><em>Man, that felt good. <em>Leaving the lab, Jim's step is more energetic and confident than it's been in weeks, and he's still got the beat from the lab buzzing pleasantly in his head.

Alpha shift is just ending, and he knows he should stop by Sickbay to see what Bones wants, but... well, Bones will probably rant at him no matter when he shows up, so another hour or so won't make a difference. And Dr. Dehner _did_ encourage him to get back into his normal routine.

The gym is always crowded at shift changes, and today is no exception. Pausing at the door, he notes that the holo-treadmills are all in use. He _could _simply warm up with a few laps around the saucer, and then work on his flexibility or muscular endurance; that equipment is usually free. But today, he wants the headspace of a long, intense run. Unfortunately, the thought of waiting around for a free platform, while he's all revved up to get started, isn't appealing.

As he stands there uncertainly, one of the runners suddenly ends his program and slows to a walk. "Off in ninety seconds, Captain."

Jim waves a hand in dismissal. "No need to hurry off, Leslie." Much as he wants to start his run, he doesn't like to be given special treatment.

John Leslie, a burly lieutenant in the Operations Divsion, laughs good-naturedly. "With all due respect, sir, you look like you're waiting for the starting gun, and I'm just as happy to get off this conveyor belt and hit the resistance training studio."

Well, he doesn't need an engraved invitation. Stepping into the middle of the platform, Jim punches up his personal running trail. The immediate area around him becomes a shimmering, projected hologram. Jim smiles to himself at the sight of the rolling, green hills, a dusty dirt trail, and an endless, blue horizon. Beginning with a brisk walk, he works his way up to a steady, fast pace. Breathing deeply, he recognizes the preprogrammed release of hexanol and leaf aldehyde molecules - the smell of grass. It's not Iowa, but it's close.

For the first fifteen minutes or so, he's distracted, hyperaware of everything. It annoys him that the grass has no weeds and that the color is too vividly green. As he pounds up a short, steep incline, all he can think of is the stiffness in his joints, the pull of the air through his nostrils and into his chest, the way he's holding his hands in loose fists. Just beyond the platform limits, he can make out the muffled voices and blurred outlines of the other crew members busy with their own exercise routines. He pushes them out of his mind, but it doesn't help much. His thoughts are disjointed, bouncing from one thing to another.

And then it happens. Something _clicks,_ and holding his pace becomes effortless. His body is propelled forward as if by some hidden force, and his mind is clear and focused.

He's always done his best thinking when he's running. Back when he was a kid, he ran to escape his uncle's ugly taunts and his brother's furious retorts. Later, he ran to escape his own disappointments and resentments, from the mother who was never there to the dead-end path of mediocrity he seemed to have chosen for himself. For an hour or so, his mind would be crystal clear, and he'd be left with a deep satisfaction that lasted long after the run was over.

In the Academy, he learned to focus on his coursework during his morning run. As he jogged up and down the steep paths between main campus and Crissy Field, he'd visualize military strategies and work on his assignments in applied math. Bones used to lecture him about overuse injuries and obsessive habits... but Jim was convinced that his daily run kept him at the top of his game.

Now, as he runs through the virtual grassy fields, he replays the scene in the Stellar Cartography lab in his mind, savoring the feeling of confidence he had when Lieutenant Commander Cheng had praised his unexpected knowledge of astrophysics in general and pulsars in particular. He loves knowing that he's aware and informed about everything that happens on his ship, even things that fall outside of most Command officers' expertise. It comes to him, with sudden clarity, how much he loves being captain, loves being out here in the stars, having finally found what he was meant to do.

_I can't give this up_, he thinks.

As he runs, he's suddenly struck with a vivid memory of himself as a child, eight years old or so, sitting on his mother's bed watching her pack. Most of his salient memories of his mother revolve around her leaving him, even though he knows, intellectually, that she spent long periods at home in between missions.

* * *

><p><em>"Who do you have to bunk with on the <em>Endurance_?" he asks._

_She smiles. "Nobody. I'm a lieutenant commander, remember? I get a single, and it's pretty nice. Not as big as your room, though."_

_"I like sharing with Sam." Sam doesn't like sharing with him, though. He hates it when Jim sits on his bed and uses his PADD, but Jim does it whenever he's not around because Sam's PADD is a lot faster and has better games. Also, now that Sam's been ignoring him so much lately, annoying him has become Jim's favorite way to get his attention, even if it usually means getting pushed around or yelled at. He used to crawl into Sam's bed at night and sleep with him sometimes, but Sam won't let him do that anymore. He says that Jim kicks him in his sleep and hogs the blankets._

_"It's nice that you two are still so close," she says, with a little smile of affection. "Go get me my blue robe from the closet, Jim."_

_The soft cotton material is comfortable and familiar under his fingers. She's always had the same robe, as long as he can remember. "Are you gonna be back in time for the fair this summer?"_

_She folds the robe carefully, adding it to the growing pile of clothes on the bed. "I told you that I won't get leave until at least July, maybe later. The Shipyards Fair is in June."_

_"So who'll take me?" It's the biggest event in Riverside all summer, which isn't saying much, because Riverside is boring. Still, he loves flying the shuttle simulator and trying out all the interactive historical exhibits, like the first moon walk and the Battle of Cheron. Last year, when Jim tried the Battle exhibit, he made some pretty dumb strategic moves and the Romulans won, but this year he's going to be ready for it. And he loves the virtual tour of a real starship._

_"Your Uncle Frank can take you. I'll remind him." She doesn't look up from her packing, so luckily she doesn't see the face Jim makes. He's not allowed to disrespect his uncle, but Jim_knows_ that Frank won't bother to take him. Maybe Jim can get Sam to go with him, even though Sam says that he's too old for the fair now that he's fourteen._

_"What do you want me to bring you this time, Jim?" His mother always brings him a special present when she comes home on leave, something that you can't buy in a store. "There's a beautiful mineral on Deneb, where we'll be in about a month. It looks like quartz, but it glows blue in the dark."_

_"No thanks. I don't really collect minerals anymore. But... can you get me a Denobulan ceremonial knife?"_

_That makes his mother look up and frown. "Why in the world would you want that?"_

_"I like weapons. I'm starting a new collection," he says quickly. He's already got a replica of a laser pistol, which his grandfather gave him for his birthday. Lately, he's been reading all about the history of weapons: the swords and armor of the knights of the Middle Ages, the deadly bows and arrows of the Native Americans, the Colt 45 that won the American West, and even the Klingon Bat'leth._

_"I don't know, Jim..." His mother looks torn. She tells him all the time that she doesn't approve of solving problems with violence and she warns him not to get into fistfights like Sam. But she'll get the knife for him, he's sure. She likes to bring him the presents he asks for, especially when she's gone on a long-range mission._

_He doesn't know why he wants the weapons, besides a vague feeling that he needs them. His mom will be leaving soon. Sam used to be around more, but he's off with his friends whenever he can get away. And Frank... Frank doesn't protect Jim. Frank is loud, and mean, and angry most of the time._

_So Jim needs to protect himself._

* * *

><p>He doesn't blame his mother for wanting to leave. He did, for a long time, but not anymore. How can he blame her for wanting to explore among the stars and make new discoveries, instead of settling for an insignificant life in middle-of-nowhere Riverside? It's what he'd have done, in her position. Even though Jim paid a heavy price for her ambition.<p>

And no child should have to pay that price.

He's struck by an image of himself, standing in the dark behind the old farmhouse. Except in his mind's eye, he's not a child. He's a grown man and there's a baby in his arms, wrapped in a blanket. He's looking at the stars, scanning the skies like he used to do when his mother was in the black and he was so lonely.

_No way._ He's not staying behind again.

Jim feels a rivulet of liquid forging a tickling trail down his back. He swipes his hand over the back of his neck. He's covered in sweat, chest heaving, his legs muscles numb and shaky. Slowing to a walk, he watches his heart rate on the monitor as it gradually drifts down to a normal level. The hologram fades, and he suddenly becomes aware once again that he's in a room full of people.

"Good run, Captain!" he hears one of them say appreciatively as she steps up to take his place on the platform.

"It clears my head," he says, wiping his face with a towel. "Helps me think."

* * *

><p>"Where the <em>hell<em> have you been?" Bones growls at him. "I called you over five hours ago!"

Jim leans back against the wall in the bio lab, enjoying the exhausted ache in his muscles. The endorphin high keeps him relaxed, and he has a small smile on his lips even as Bones rants.

"I said that I needed to see you the minute you were free, and I meant it! So your shift ends and where do you go? To the goddamn gym!" Jim opens his mouth to protest, but Bones silences him with a glare. "Don't try to deny it. Your face is all red, you're fresh out of the shower, and you've got that goofy look you always get after you've been racing on that holo-thing for an hour."

Jim wonders if he's really _that_ readable, or maybe Bones had one of the nurses spying on him at the gym. "I like to run. You should try it sometime." He grins. "I'll program it so you can run through Georgia pines or peach orchards, whichever you want. Complete with the sights and smells of home."

"Knowing you, you'll program in a nice Georgia thundershower in the middle."

"Who, me?" It wouldn't actually be so hard, he thinks. He could install a few hydrosprinklers over the platform, program the olfactory interface to simulate the smell of wet soil... The tricky part would be adjusting the barometric pressure over the platform, but Scotty could probably find a way to do that, if Jim let him in on the joke. He could handle the visuals himself-a few flashes of lightning, darkening sky...

"Well, I'm not going near that damn contraption, so you can stop thinking about it. Just two weeks ago one of the Engineering trainees tried to program in a mountain-climbing holo, fell off, and gave himself a compound fracture of the tibia." Bones gives him a sly look. "If I want to sweat, I can think of better ways of going about it."

"Running can make _those_ ways even better," Jim parries.

Bones grunts in acknowledgement, but his expression sobers quickly. "Let's go back to my office."

The minute Jim is seated across the desk from him, Bones has a hand-held med scanner out, and he makes a slow sweep over Jim's chest. "You shouldn't overdo it, you know. You're still recovering, Jim..."

"Still _pregnant_, you mean."

"That, too. Still not eating or sleeping well, and when I commed you earlier, you looked exhausted. Why the devil did you decide to do an intense workout today?"

_Because I needed to do some thinking. _"I felt better. And I've been off my routine for too long. I need to build myself back up."

"Your heart rate and respiration are still elevated, beyond your normal levels. You need to take it easy, kid." Bones sighs, looking uncomfortable. "Anyway, that's not what I called you down here to discuss. And no, before you ask, I'm still not ready to operate."

"Wow. Totally surprised me there."

"Don't get huffy. I'm working on it." Bones looks genuinely apologetic. "Believe me, I know how much you want to get rid of this. I haven't forgotten that for one minute."

Bones' gaze falls absently on the slow holo slideshow that plays across the screen at the corner of his desk. There's an image of a rugged mountain chain covered in dark green woods. After a beat, it fades into a portrait of a white-haired woman with Bones' piercing gaze and a warm smile. Jim watches the random flow of pictures. He's always been both a little bewildered and a little envious of the way Bones surrounds himself with nostalgic images of home, but they do seem to bring him some comfort. And maybe they could both use some comfort right now.

The image morphs into a short movie of a small, dark-haired girl, doing clumsy somersaults on a grassy lawn. She lands a little crookedly, but jumps to her feet, a broad grin on her face, hands raised in triumph. Bones' daughter Joanna, who lives with her mother and hasn't seen her father for eight months.

It occurs to him, for the first time, that maybe he's not the only one who's struggling with this. He's been so wrapped up in his own frustrations that he hasn't taken a minute to imagine what this embryo - this potential _child _- might mean to Bones. Running through the Iowa fields, the only thing he could think about was his own early experiences-staying behind while his mother explored the stars, abandoned to a caretaker who didn't want him and deserted by the brother who wouldn't stay with him.

But maybe there's another side to this. Jim knows how painful it is for Bones to be an absent father, and how much he's sacrificed personally to be here, on the _Enterprise_, at his side. Whether he wants to or not, it's time he faces that issue directly. "What do _you_ want, Bones?"

"What do you mean by that?" Bones asks, frowning. "You should know what I want, Jim. I want to help you. I'm sorry that it's taking so long, but I'm not going to operate until I think it's safe."

"That's not what I mean. With the embryo and all... you're part of this, too. So what do you want to do?"

Bones doesn't hesitate. "I want to do what's best for your health." It sounds so simple when he says it, but he's completely missing the point.

"That's not an answer." _That's not what I'm trying to ask._

"Sure it is. I want to give you what _you_ want, a successful surgery that'll let you put this all behind you."

Jim shakes his head. "Tell me what _you_ really want to do. Not what you think I want."

"Dammit, Jim, what the hell are you asking?" Bones looks authentically confused.

"I want you to be honest with me!" He's not sure why he's so frustrated, or what he wants the doctor to admit. Doesn't even quite know how to ask the question that's lodged itself at the front of his mind.

Bones is scowling now. "Look, yelling at me isn't going to change things. Be patient. We'll find a way to remove it soon."

This question has been churning in his mind for the last four days, just underneath his conscious thoughts. It pushes up now, bubbling to the surface faster than he can stop it. "Tell me something. Theoretically, could I... I mean, how long do you think this could go on, if we don't operate?"

Bones' mouth falls slightly open and he stares for just a second too long. "Wait a minute - are you asking me if the embryo is viable? If you could carry this baby to term?" Just hearing Bones use the word "baby" like that makes him flinch.

"Yes. I just want to know... is it even possible?"

Bones leans back in his seat and rakes a hand through his hair, then pinches the bridge of his nose for a moment, eyes closed, before looking back up. "Jim, as you've pointed out many times, you're a man. Men aren't built to carry a baby. You don't have the proper equipment, the hormone balance, or the body structure for it. The artificial uterus is stable for now, but I don't know if it will continue to develop long enough for a complete gestation. It's also wedged between some pretty sensitive organs, and I have no idea what would happen after the whole structure - uterus and embryo - gets large enough to put weight and pressure on the aorta and surrounding organs. That being said... medical science has advanced a lot. We can synthesize entire organs from stem cells, safely put a human being in complete stasis for an indefinite period of time, and map the human body down to the molecular level in less than an hour." He sighs and leans heavily on his desk, shoulders bent as if under some unseen weight. "So is it possible? Theoretically, yes."

_Shit, shit, shit_. It feels like a slap in the face. He hasn't even thought about it before, and now he feels like an asshole. It's a human embryo, and it could be viable. And as fucked up as this is, it's _theirs_.

Even though Bones is a doctor, and has surely dealt with pregnancy termination before, on some level it's got to be ripping him apart to hear Jim demand, day after day, that he remove it. Kill it. It's _his _DNA, too. Fuck, Bones had to go and call it a _baby_. Up until now, it's just seemed like a thing that needed to be excised and discarded as quickly as possible, and Jim never once considered the fact that it could actually become a living, breathing infant. On one level, he knows exactly what he wants - to put it all behind him, just like Bones said. But somehow, suddenly, the entire problem seems much larger. "Do you think... I mean, if it's theoretically possible, would you want... should I..." He can't quite bring himself to say it.

But Bones only shakes his head. "Whoa, slow down there! Could it be done? Theoretically, maybe. But not practically. I mean, good God, Jim. You can't possibly be thinking of keeping it." Then his eyes go wider. "Are you?"

Jim can't stop himself from flinching at the demanding question. "I don't know! I don't think so. But I need to know if it could be done... and what you think."

Bones blinks, looking almost dazed by the entire line of questioning. "What I _think_? I think it's a neat trick of bioengineering... but it's a goddamn dangerous thing to be carrying around. For God's sake, Jim, encouraging you to keep it would go against all my medical ethics! This wasn't something you chose or consented to. What they did to you... it's a violation of your body, it's putting your life at risk, and I promise I'll do everything in my power to help you get rid of it."

"It's half yours, you know." Even as he says it, he's not sure if he means it as invitation or accusation. As the words hang uneasily in the air between them, Bones gives him a penetrating look, as if he's weighing what to say.

"Jim, for God's sake, of course I know that it's mine too. Don't you think I'm aware of my part in this? If I could have imagined what would happen..." He shakes his head in disbelief and anger. "It's got our DNA, sure. But it was constructed artificially, and pushed on you involuntarily, in terrible circumstances. This... this isn't... Just because it's been pieced together from our genetics doesn't mean..." His voice trails off, and he runs his hand through his hair in exasperation. "I know it's taking too long for me to come up with a safe surgical plan, and I'm sorry, but dammit, Jim, you can't think of it as..."

"Is _it_ a boy or a girl?" The words fly out of his mouth before he can stop them.

Bones frowns. "I'm not going to answer that."

"But you know."

"Of course I know, I did a genome map. But you shouldn't think of it as a boy or girl. It's just a five-week-old embryo - it can't even be properly called a fetus yet. It doesn't belong in your body, and knowing its gender will only confuse you. You can't... goddammit, Jim, you can't keep it."

Bones is probably right - it's completely insane - and Jim's not sure he really wants to know the baby's sex, but he can't help resenting the way every choice has been taken from him. "It's my decision to make," he says stubbornly.

It's not even about keeping the embryo. Not really. At this point, all he wants is a sense of control - something he lost on Antos II and never quite regained.

Bones looks at him bleakly. "Anything concerning your own body is your choice, but keeping this... that's crazy talk. You're tired, and you're not thinking straight." He sighs. "I'll tell you the gender, if you really want to know, but first make sure you _do_ really want that. Once I tell you, you can't undo that knowledge." He waits until Jim nods reluctantly. "And the reason I called you down here, if we can finally get to that, is that I'd like to start you on a regimen of supportive therapy."

Jim looks at him in confusion. "Wait, now _you_ want me to keep it?"

"Right now, I want to make sure your body doesn't reject it in the meantime, so that _I_ can control when and how we remove it."

"What do you mean, reject it?"

"It's complicated." His tone becomes instructive. "In a normal pregnancy, there's a complex combination of immunological and hormonal changes going on. The mother's body would be producing hormones called progesterone and human chorionic gonadotrophin to maintain the pregnancy, and to prevent the maternal immune system from attacking the fetus and causing a spontaneous abortion. A miscarriage is messy anyway, but if it happened with you, there would be no place for the fetus to go."

Right. No birth canal. "So what would happen?"

Bones' mouth contorts into a grimace. "It would be a serious medical emergency, Jim. Wouldn't matter if I'd found a way to operate safely or not - I'd have to go in, and it would be under less-than-ideal conditions."

"So why wait?" It doesn't make sense.

"Because for now, it's stable, and until I come up with a technique that has a better chance of success, the risk of surgery is greater than the risk of waiting." His gaze drops. "I keep running simulations, and just when I think I've got an idea that works, the whole thing goes to hell in a handbasket."

"I don't get it, Bones. You're a brilliant surgeon, and it's the size of a pea! Why put it off until it's big as a grapefruit?"

"I'm hoping like hell we won't be waiting that long. But... it's the artificial blood vessels. The tissue looks like normal human tissue at first glance, but it's not. I need to figure out what it's doing to the other arteries where it's fused with the existing tissue." His expression turns plaintive, almost like he's begging for something. "I'm trying, Jim. I swear, I've got to be close." Then his face pinches. "But in the meantime, we can't let this thing miscarry."

"So... you want to give me hormones? _Female_ hormones?" Oh God, he's going to get breasts...

His horror must be written all over his face, because Bones gives him a reassuring pat on the arm. "Low doses. You shouldn't feel any side effects. If you'll agree, I can implant a micro-dose capsule in the uterine sac. That would keep most of the hormones from impacting the rest of your body. And at the same time," he says carefully, "I'll take a biopsy."

"A biopsy." Jim's voice is flat, but just the sound of the word sends his heart racing.

"A tissue sample of the uterine sac," Bones amends. "So I can examine it closely, get a better understanding of the cell replication process and the way the blood vessels are developing. Jim, _look_ at me."

With an effort, he raises his gaze from his boots, which have suddenly become a lot more interesting to look at than his friend's face. He squares his shoulders and says, "I'm okay. Whatever. A biopsy's a good idea."

"You won't feel it, Jim. None of it. And it might hold the key to solving this puzzle."

"Do what you have to do." He feels suddenly exhausted, as if his run is finally catching up with him."So, hormone therapy. Would it keep the... the baby viable?" There, he's said the word aloud too. _Baby._

In a heartbeat, Bones' face goes unreadable. "You really shouldn't be thinking about it like that, Jim. Technically, yes. But..." He sighs. "Five days ago, you were almost screaming at me to have it removed immediately. Now, you want to keep it?"

"I haven't said that. I just want to know."

Bones nods uneasily. "I suppose it's a reasonable question. And yes, it would keep it viable... as much as it could be, which I'm telling you is doubtful. I don't think it would be possible to carry it safely to term, even if you wanted to. Your best chance is for us to keep it stable while I come up with a workable surgical procedure, and then we operate as soon as I do."

"That's the plan?"

"That's the plan."

Jim finds himself nodding, even though he's bothered by a nagging thought that Bones must be exaggerating the risks, the way he always does. "Okay. Let's do it."

A look of relief washes over Bones. "Good. And another thing, Jim. I need you to wear a med sensor from now on."

"What? Oh, come _on_, Bones!" The last thing he wants is a damned leash.

Bones leans towards Jim and furrows his eyebrows. "I need to be able to monitor your vitals, see what effects these meds are having. And since you obviously don't want to be called down to Sickbay several times a day, this is the easiest way. It'll fit around your wrist. You won't even notice it."

"Spock will notice." The protest sounds pathetic, now that he's said it.

"So talk to him. Tell him what's going on."

"Not yet," he says, too quickly. Just the thought of having to explain all this to Spock is making him flush with embarrassment. "I mean, he doesn't have to know as long as it doesn't affect my command ability."

"Fine. But seriously, I want you to take things easy. No more running until this is over, no intense workouts at all. And don't give me that look, kid. You've got to remember that this embryo is directly connected to the largest artery in your body, and it's impacting the blood flow to your organs, your legs... everything. It's stable if you don't mess with it, but if you go running, the extra pressure could be too much. You can use the regular treadmills - _not_ those holo-monstrosities - for walking. _Just _walking, Jim. If I see that you're having a sudden spike in your heart rate or blood pressure, I swear on my grandmother's peach cobbler, I will keep you in sickbay under constant surveillance until I've finished the surgical plan and we can remove this thing."

Jim barely manages to hide his dismay. "Peach cobbler, Bones? You must really be serious."

"I'll tell Spock." Bones' stare is uncompromising.

Jim clenches his jaw under the scrutiny. He quickly realizes he's fighting a losing battle. Sure, Bones is probably exaggerating the risk - the man is a mother hen and then some - but even Jim has to admit that this time, it might be best to slow down a little. He's already been through hell. If anything else happens, it would mean that the Antosians have won again. He's not going to let that happen.

With a sigh, he pulls up the cuff of his sleeve and offers his wrist. "Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

**Day 43  
><strong>**  
><strong>"Although we've finished the general mapping of the pulsar cluster," Lieutenant Commander Cheng says as she closes her presentation, "Astrophysics has gathered enough data in the past week to keep us busy for the next two months." She looks around at the assembled senior staff in the observation lounge. "When we prepare our final report, Stellar Cartography will request permission to integrate our findings into the current Federation star charts."

"Thank you, Commander," Jim says with a grin. "Your team's work on this mission has been exemplary."

Spock leans forward ever so slightly. "Commander, do you plan to submit the complete records of raw data for analysis by the Vulcan Science Academy?"

"Of course. As soon as we can, we'll provide Starfleet and all Federation allies with both the raw data and our calculations. We'll be sending brief clips of the emissions with our initial submission of the report, but..." Her smile turns mischievous and just a bit apologetic. "With the amount of information we collected, transmitting the entire collection of raw data via subspace would require the full capacity of the _Enterprise_'s communications array for a month."

Jim tilts his head thoughtfully. "Commander Cheng, we'll be at Space Station 67 for resupply in a couple of weeks. They're one of the sector's subspace relay hubs. Your team should be able to transmit from there."

"Their comms officer might want to strangle me, but yes, we can do that, Captain."

"Sounds good," Jim says happily. "And by the way, I heard the audio recordings playing in the Officer's Lounge a few days ago. Someone on your team's got some musical talent."

She smiles. "That's Ensign Ortiz. He's the only one in the lab with enough sense of rhythm to turn the cluster emissions into a track that people might actually want to listen to."

"Then pass along the positive feedback. Thank you for your report, Commander. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir."

The door slides shut behind Commander Cheng, leaving the senior officers to the rest of their meeting. Jim lets himself sigh contentedly as he shifts in his chair. Aside from one very small problem - _it weighs less than a fucking peanut, Kirk,_ he keeps telling himself - which Bones has _sworn _will be solved soon, everything seems to be going wonderfully onboard the ship. The pulsar cluster survey yielded better results than they could have imagined, and Jim is going to promote Ensign Ortiz as soon as he can submit the forms. Quarterly crew evaluations are nearly complete, nothing has exploded in Engineering in weeks, and now, with the pulsar cluster behind them, they're already en route to the Telosian system to do a planetary survey of Telos III, an uninhabited Class M planet.

Jim leans comfortably on his elbows and folds his arms - a habit he's picked up over the past week to hide the damned medical sensor that Bones has refused to remove - and looks over his senior staff. "Now that we've had our debriefing from the pulsar cluster survey, let's get on with the meeting. We'll be arriving at Telos III in about 42 hours. Starfleet has requested a standard planetary survey, with an eye towards the establishment of a base within the next ten years, possibly a colony within the next thirty. Mr. Spock, the specs on the planet, if you would?"

Spock raises an eyebrow and taps a few buttons on the display screen controls. An image of Telos III fills the screen, and a list of basic planetary information scrolls down the side. "Telos III is a temperate class M planet, 1.187 times the mass of Earth. Two-thirds of the surface is covered with water. Four major continents, moderate tectonic activity, varied climate depending on the region, rich vegetation in most areas, and the largest land animals observed in the preliminary survey are reportedly no larger than a meter in length."

Jim nods. "Sounds like a nice place for a future Starfleet base, or possibly some current shore leave." He nods to the table. "We'll send down five away teams to locations that will be finalized by a sensor sweep once we're in orbit. Mr. Spock, you'll lead one team. I'd like Sulu, Decker, and Kauser to take the others. If any of the sites look promising, I'll authorize shore leave for the crew, taken in six hour shifts. It's been months since our people have had the chance to stretch their legs and breath some fresh air. Everyone, speak to your section leaders and tell them to set up a skeleton crew schedule in anticipation of shore leave."

"And the fifth team?"

Jim looks down the table to Bones, who's been quiet for most of the meeting. The doctor is looking at him evenly, and Jim suddenly knows, with infuriating certainty, what Bones is driving at. That warm sense of satisfaction he's felt since the start of the meeting is about to vanish like smoke. "Beg your pardon, Bones?"

"You said you've got five survey teams heading down to the surface," Bones says in a measured tone. "You named four team leaders. Who's taking the fifth team, Jim?"

"I am," he says, with the understood, _of course_.

Bones continues, putting a peculiar weight on his words that settles heavily on Jim's shoulders. "What are the physical requirements of this particular mission? From the report, the planet also has nineteen percent atmospheric oxygen... which is less than most class-M planets. Almost twenty percent higher gravity."

There's an awkward pause. The other officers look confused, but Jim knows exactly what Bones is implying. While those conditions are more stressful on a human body than standard Earth conditions, any Starfleet-trained human should be able to handle the conditions on Telos III easily. However, in his current condition, the physical strain of planetary conditions might be risky for him. No strenuous physical activity, Bones ordered. But after all, this isn't a marathon, it's just a routine landing party. Jim lowers his voice and says, in the most casual tone he can muster despite the anger that's beginning to simmer, "Your concern is noted, doctor. But it's a simple planetary survey, and the demands of the mission are well within acceptable limits for Starfleet personnel."

Jim doesn't usually lose his temper so quickly with someone he cares about, but fuck it all, his friends don't usually stab him in the back, either. He shoots a look back at Bones that says quite clearly, _If you try to push this in front of my senior staff, this will get very ugly, very fast._

Bones evidently gets the message, because his eyebrows contort in a way that replies, _You haven't had the last word._

With the relaxed sense of confidence from a minute ago gone, Jim squares his shoulders and ignores the frigid vibe that has settled over the table. He plows through the rest of the meeting. He grins at Scotty, Sulu, and Uhura as they walk out of the room, but Spock hesitates as he's leaving. He glances from where Bones is still sitting at the conference table, making no motion to get up, to Jim, who is standing by the door. The three of them are alone, and Spock steps back into the room, allowing the door to slide shut.

"Captain, it would be illogical to speak indirectly, so I must ask... is there a reason why Doctor McCoy does not want you to lead a team on the next landing party?"

Jim knew this was coming, but hearing the question makes his gut freeze. Now, he has to explain, come clean, or think fast. He folds his arms across his chest with a sigh. "No need for alarm, Spock. The doctor is just being overprotective." He glances sideways at him. _So help me God, Bones, if you blow it now... _

Spock raises an eyebrow. "I am aware that you have been exhibiting signs of fatigue and reduced physical efficiency for the last twenty days, Captain."

"Just a stomach bug." He knows he answered that too quickly.

Jim swears Spock just frowned. "Doctor, has the captain not fully recovered from this... stomach bug?"

Bones twists his lips, and for a second, Jim is sure he's about to blow his cover. Then something in the aggressive tilt of Bones' shoulders changes. "Yeah, seems to be taking longer than usual to clear this one. But what else can we expect from a man with an immune system like a damned Rube Goldberg machine?"

"Hey!" Jim blurts defensively. This earns him an eyebrow from Bones this time, one which states bluntly, _I could have just spilled the beans, so shut up._

Spock tilts his head slightly, in the way he often does when he's pretending to be working on a conclusion he's already drawn. "That would be the reason you have been wearing a medical sensor, Captain?"

Jim gives a chagrined nod. So Spock noticed the damned thing anyway. But this is a convenient explanation, so he might as well go with it. "Saves me from running down to Sickbay twice a day for tests. Not that I need them, because I'm _fine_." He shoots a meaningful glare at Bones.

"Might I inquire if this ailment was contracted during your captivity on Antos?"

Jim opens his mouth to protest instinctively, but Bones beats him to it. "We think so. Those bastards were none too gentle, but Jim's on the mend. And maybe he's right - I'm overprotective, but dammit, that's my job. I just think it would be better for him to sit out this one mission."

Jim feels his surge of resentment fizzle into a sputtering ember as he realizes that Spock seems to accept the explanation... and that Bones really hasn't given anything away. Still, he doesn't want any more restrictions. It makes him feel like a caged animal, an all-too-familiar sensation. "If I'm on the mend, Bones, why is this mission so worrisome? It's just an uninhabited planet. Simple survey mission. It would be the perfect way for me to get back into the field. And you know what they say about getting back on the horse, right?"

Spock looks from Jim to Bones and back to Jim. "I believe that colloquial advice is meant to apply to a horseman who has not been injured. If the rider has broken his leg falling off the horse, the he would likely benefit from having his leg healed before attempting to mount again. If you haven't fully recovered, then perhaps you would be best served by following Doctor McCoy's instructions. I would trust that his advice is not given lightly."

"Spock and I are in agreement? Well, shut my mouth and paint me red."

"A most peculiar request, Doctor."

"Well, then shut _your _mouth and paint ya green, Spock."

Jim isn't sure if he should laugh or groan. "Listen, _gentlemen_, as much as I love the banter as you pick through my medical eligibility for a landing party, can we settle this?"

"Sure, Jim." Bones stands and folds his arms lightly across his chest. "Call it a precaution and protest all you want, but I'm putting you on limited physical duty and restricting you from this mission."

It's all Jim can do to keep his jaw from dropping. "Bones, that's not _settling _anything! We're still discussing this."

"There seems to be little to discuss, Captain," Spock says calmly. "The Chief Medical Officer has restricted your duties based on medical eligibility. I believe this is one case in which neither of us has the authority to overrule him."

"You're not helping, Spock," Jim grumbles.

"Jim, listen... just give it another week." Bones gives him a meaningful look. "You know, to let the bug work its way out of your system."

Jim knows he's trying to say that he's close to a solution, and that there will be a safe way to operate soon. Once that's done, he'll be able to go back to normal. Everything will be the same as it was. Bones will remove the problem and Jim will get on with living, because the way he's existing right now sure as hell isn't living. "Fine," he says with a sigh. "Lieutenant Rodriguez can lead the fifth team. He's ready for that. I'll run ops from the ship."

Spock nods. "A wise decision, Captain."

"You'll be back leading landing parties soon enough, Jim. Just forgive an old country doctor for worrying a bit too much." Bones' jaw is set firmly, but his eyes are pleading, just a bit.

Jim forces a wan smile, but resentment is bubbling hot and thick, just below the surface. He hasn't been on a mission since Antos, and he needs to do _something_ to feel like a proper Starfleet captain again. Fuck, he hasn't done anything more strenuous than walking around the saucer section's perimeter corridor in over a week. He considered using the holo-treadmills for walking, but he couldn't bring himself to try it. He's always led by example - training, long shifts, extra effort, and fitness. He couldn't stand the thought that his crew would see him _walk _for his workouts. So instead, he's been taking walks around the saucer section, far from curious eyes, and done stretching in his quarters.

And now, he's being caged aboard his own starship while there's a new planet waiting to be explored. Still, instead of bursting out with all the things he wants to say, he just nods. "I understand why you worry, Bones. You're just doing your job."

Bones gives him a bleak look, but Spock interrupts before Bones can say anything. "If you will excuse me, Captain, Doctor, I must return to my station."

Jim responds with a tilt of his head. "Dismissed, Mr. Spock."

As soon as Spock is through the door, Jim moves to follow, but Bones catches his arm. "Jim... I'm sorry."

Jim shrugs uncomfortably. "You didn't tell him, and I guess that's the best I can ask for right now."

"You _should _be able to ask for a clean bill of health, Jim, and don't think I've forgotten that." Bones' expression is so pained that Jim can't help but feel a bit guilty.

"I know you're working on it." Rationally, he's sure that Bones has put every spare waking moment into researching this problem, but Jim isn't feeling particularly rational.

Bones nods. "I am. I requested an information packet from Starfleet Medical. They've been doing some incredible work lately with a new cellular-level surgical technique. It might be the safest way to separate the artificial blood vessel cells from your own cells without damaging the native tissue. The data should arrive in the next transmission packet we receive, and I'll be able to start applying those techniques to surgical models soon." He squeezes Jim's arm. "I swear, Jim, I'm gonna take care of you."

Jim swallows tightly. "I know you are, Bones." He reaches up and pats Bones' hand awkwardly. The thing is, he doesn't really want to be _taken care of_. He just wants this fucking nightmare to end - the confusion, the medical restrictions, the horrific memories, the increasingly creepy thought that there's a baby in there. Not a baby... an embryo. Not even really a fetus yet. But still. He doesn't want to be taken care of right now. He just wants it to go away. He wants his independence back. Hell, he just wants his life back.

Bones withdraws his hand, and suddenly looks less apologetic and more like his CMO. "In the meantime, Jim... while we're still en route to Telos III, I want you to meet with Doctor Dehner again. I know you've rescheduled that appointment with her three times now."

"I'll see her when I have time, Bones. I've been busy with the pulsar cluster project." That sounds like a pretty poor excuse, even to his own ears.

"Well, that project is over, and you have time now. So I scheduled your appointment for this afternoon."

"What?" Jim doesn't even bother trying to hide the dismay in his voice. "Come on, Bones. Isn't it enough that I can't go running, can't go down to the planet, and have to wear this stupid dog collar everywhere?" He holds up his wrist, brandishing the med sensor bracelet.

Bones flinches slightly, but doesn't back down. "That's _why_ you need to go see her. I'm doing what I can to keep your body stable and safe, but this is taking a toll on you... and don't give me that _look_. You can try to pretend it's not impacting you psychologically, but you're not stupid and neither am I." He presses his lips together and gives Jim a long, worried look. "You're one of the strongest people I've ever met, kid. Most people would have buckled long ago under the shit that you've gone through. But Jim... you're not immortal. If you want to keep yourself together, and remain capable of command, you're going to need to accept support, including psychological. That doesn't make you weak."

"Feels like it does," Jim grumbles under his breath.

Bones just shakes his head sadly. "I know you're the captain, but you don't run this ship on your own, do you?"

Jim shakes his head, unsure what Bones means.

"You can't do everything by yourself. You've got a crew that's more than competent, the best in their fields. Even if you're the leader, you still need to rely on them. And they rely on you to function at your best. That means accepting counseling when it's needed." Leonard scowls when Jim rolls his eyes. "Your appointment with Liz is for the end of your shift. She'll be expecting you at 1730 hours."

"Bones," he says with a long groan, but he knows that protesting is useless at this point.

"I'm going to keep working on my part of this problem, so I need you to do your part. Take care of yourself, Jim. Physically and mentally." His eyes flick towards the door, then back to Jim's face. "I'm worried about you because I care about you."

Jim swallows against a dry throat. "I know." And damn, he needs to know that someone cares, needs the support, at the same time as he perversely wants to run in the other direction. It's been weeks since he's really spent time with Bones, touched him, shared meals with him. They certainly haven't slept together, for sex or sleeping, since Antos. Jim _needs_Bones like he needs oxygen, but he feels like he can't even allow himself to draw breath.

_Maybe I do need to see Dehner_.

Thinking that makes him feel worse. "Okay, Bones," he sighs. "I'll be there."

Bones gives him a relieved smile. "Good. It's won't be so bad, Jim. Just talk to her. And... do you want to meet for dinner after your appointment?"

Jim opens his mouth to agree, almost automatically, but then hesitates. He has the unpleasant feeling that after talking to the counselor, he might not want company. So he shrugs. "Maybe. I'll let you know. I need to review the preliminary survey records for Telos III a bit more. I'll probably grab a bite for myself later."

Bones' shoulders droop, just a bit. "Okay. I just miss ya, kid."

"I know. I miss you, too." He looks at the door, suddenly needing to escape. "I've got to get back to the Bridge."

Bones nods. "I've got work to do in sickbay." He reaches out and gives Jim's shoulder a squeeze. "Comm me after your appointment."

"Okay."

Jim watches numbly as Bones walks out of the observation lounge, then turns to look out the viewport. The stars are streaking by as the ship cruises through space at warp three. Normally, the view enthralls him. Now, he simply feels like he's lost in the depths of space, alone and confused. His best friend, lover, partner - _Bones _- just walked out the door, and he's scared to follow. That alone is something foreign and horrifying. Scared of Bones. Scared of the Antosians. Scared of his own nightmares. Scared of a bundle of cells that never should have existed.

Finally, the confusing thoughts are too much, and he turns away from the viewport and strides out of the observation lounge, back to the Bridge. At least when he's in the Captain's chair, he knows who he is and what he has to do.

* * *

><p>The lights in Liz Dehner's office are a bit too dim, and her smile is just a little too... <em>knowing<em>. Now that he's here, Jim really wishes he could have come up with some decent excuse to skip this appointment.

"How are you feeling, Captain?"

He has to think about how he wants to answer, because it's a trick question. During their last session, over two weeks ago, he'dresponded with a nonchalant _I'm fine_, which led to an uncomfortable silence and then a pointed comment about how he doesn't like to admit to weakness. Which is true, of course.

So he settles for a partial truth, knowing that she'll see right through an outright lie. Reviewing his current checklist of why he feels like shit, he picks the most generic symptom. "A little tired. Still not sleeping right, I guess."

"Trouble falling asleep, or staying asleep?"

"Falling asleep. Got a lot on my mind, you know... hard to shut it off sometimes." He smiles as if in embarrassment, giving her his best beleaguered-captain look.

"Well, I'm sure you're constantly on the run during the day." She nods sympathetically, then leans forward in her chair. "Night time is also when you probably feel most vulnerable. There are fewer distractions. Things you can push aside when you're busy may occupy your mind at night. It's the time of day when we feel most out of control."

He might have known she'd try to lead the conversation in this direction. "Maybe it's simpler than that, Doctor. I've got a lot of reports to review before our next mission. Sometimes the only time I get some peace and quiet is late at night."

"You've got an extremely demanding job."

"I can handle it," he says, too quickly.

She raises an eyebrow at that. "I wasn't implying anything about your competence, Captain. I just meant that you don't get very much time to let your guard down."

"A captain is never off duty." He's too defensive, too irritable, and he knows it. The conversation with Bones after the briefing has put him on edge, and she's bound to pick up on that. And something about her, about this whole situation, rubs him the wrong way. "I knew that when I took the job. I wanted it. And maybe I like challenges."

That's true enough, but _this_ particular challenge is not one of his favorites. This is why he's put off the counseling appointment repeatedly, cancelling the sessions with flimsy excuses. Liz Dehner may think that she's looking at him with professional detachment, but to him, it feels like prying.

He's never opened up easily. He's not quick to trust, no matter how well-meaning and caring the other person may seem. And even though he understands the reasoning behind it, he resents being forced into therapy. No smiling counselor, no matter how accepting or empathetic, can give him what he _really_ needs when he's hurting - time alone, and a safe place to lick his wounds.

He's got nothing against therapy. He's sure there are plenty of people who would take comfort in offloading their woes on a safe, supportive audience. There must be folks who actually feel better after spilling their secrets and fears like yesterday's gossip to a person who is obligated to listen sympathetically. But not him. From an early age, he's had to rely mostly on himself, and for the most part, he's done fine. Well, _fine_ according to his definition, which means, he always gets up after he's been kicked and comes up swinging harder.

After what he's been through on Antos, he's not looking for insight or sympathy. It happened and it sucked, end of story, and Dr. Dehner can't help him with her knowing comments and her meaningful silences.

"I know you don't put much stock in our sessions," she says.

"Reading my mind now, Dr. Dehner?" Dammit, he's got to stop being so transparent.

She looks amused. "You know that my psi score is nowhere near a telepath's range, Captain, but the fact that you rescheduled this meeting three times was a pretty big clue."

He laughs. "All right, doctor, you caught me. Don't take it personally. I admit it, I'm the worst patient on the ship. Just ask Dr. McCoy."

"You spend a surprising amount of time in Sickbay, then, for someone who's trying to avoid medical care."

"Maybe I'm accident prone." He gives her an innocent look, but she doesn't smile. "That was a joke, Doctor."

"We often use humor to cover up painful truths. In this case, maybe you've chosen a job that puts you in danger on a regular basis."

"You know perfectly well that that's not the reason I chose it. I'm looking for the challenge and the adventure. Anything rewarding has its risks. Shit happens. I accept that. It's part of exploring the unknown."

"And the species we encounter aren't always peaceful or gentle. Sometimes they don't share any of our values or even care if they hurt us."

His throat tightens, and suddenly it's harder to breathe.

* * *

><p><em>"James T. Kirk," Jim says for the third time, slowly and clearly. "Captain James Kirk of the starship<em>Enterprise_._ _I represent the United Federation of Planets. We come here in friendship and peace." He musters as much sincerity into his tone as he can, even though it's hard since his left wrist and ankle are chained to the wall. But he knows very little about the culture of the Antosians, and he can imagine that they felt threatened-frightened-at the sudden appearance of aliens in their midst. He's got to convince them that he and the others mean no harm. "Friendship," he repeats, using his free hand to make the signs for _friendship_ and _cooperation_ in Federation Sign Language._

_They just stare at him. It's eerie and silent, and as much as he tries to fight the feeling, it's scary as hell. They don't have mouths, or even eyebrows or hair, for that matter. He's never realized before just how expressive eyebrows can be, how necessary they are to conveying emotions. He can't read these beings at all. He has no idea what they're thinking as they watch him. They don't seem to be trying to communicate with him, and it's beyond unnerving, it's becoming downright spooky. _

_The whole situation is... well, it's_bad_. He's far underground, alone in some kind of cell. His movements are restricted. He can't communicate with his captors. They're just _observing_ him, like an animal in a zoo, or a fish in an aquarium._

_Or a subject in an experiment. The thought takes hold of him, reverberates through him. Maybe these are scientists, and they're studying him. Researchers don't try to communicate with their lab rats, do they? They just put them in mazes or-his heart sinks-implant electrodes in their brains or inject them with noxious substances._

_Maybe he's nothing more to them than a frog to be dissected._

_Don't. Panic. He can't afford to lose control. There's got to be a way out of this. From the observations of the survey teams, the Antosians are intelligent and organized, and have sophisticated technology. There must be something he can say or do, some way he can connect with them. Some language that they understand._

_"Captain James T. Kirk," he says again. The words echo strangely in his head, since he can't actually hear himself speak. "From the United Federation of Planets. We come in friendship." He tries Vulcan, Orion, Klingon, and even Spanish, just for the hell of it. Because no matter what language he tries, they don't react. They just look at him, blinking occasionally. _

_Then, as if on some prearranged signal, they turn around and leave. He's left alone again in the cell, naked, hunched in the corner. _

_And that's when the terror really begins to build. Because he knows that whatever they have planned for him, it isn't good. And if they're done observing him, the next stage, whenever it comes, will be worse._

* * *

><p>He can feel the memories pressing in, but he pushes them away. He can't think about that now, and Dehner is looking at him expectantly. But... he seems to have lost the train of the conversation. "Excuse me, what were you saying?"<p>

"That the aliens we encounter may not hold our values. They may try to hurt us."

"That's not something we can control," he says, dragging himself back to the here and now.

"That's very true. We can't control how other species will react. Sometimes we can't even control how we react ourselves. We lose our bearings when we're in unfamiliar surroundings. Especially when we feel threatened or unsafe. The normal rules don't apply."

It's a perfect opening for him to give her a classic Jim Kirk line, like _Rules are just guidelines_. But he can't quite get the words out. The silence draws out between them, oppressive and uncomfortable.

"I don't need you to tell me exactly what happened, Captain, if you don't want to," she says finally. "But I know that you were held captive for six days and violently assaulted during that time." Her voice is quiet, her tone gentle, but the words feel like a scalpel, sharp and precise, cutting him to the core and laying him open and exposed. "In a situation like that, it's normal to feel helpless, or frightened. Out of control."

He wonders whether they teach all counselors to use that pseudo-supportive voice while they rip your guts out. "Whatever happened back on the planet," he manages, "it's over. It happened, and it was bad, but I'm putting it behind me."

She looks at him contemplatively, then shakes her head. "You'd like to move past it, and in some ways you have, but I get the feeling... it's as if something's keeping the experience active in your consciousness. As much as you want to move forward, in a way you're still trapped there."

For a minute, he sits stunned, wondering if she knows more than she's letting on. _Fuck,_ _did Bones tell her? Or Chapel?_ Or maybe he's just not as good at hiding things as he thought he was. "It could be that it's still affecting me," he says carefully. "It's not something that's easy to forget."

She nods, but still looked unconvinced. "You need to give yourself more time. It's natural to have trouble sleeping or to be reminded of the experience during the day. Recovery can't be rushed."

"I'll keep that in mind."

For a moment, he thinks she's ready to drop it. But then she frowns and gives him another of her piercing looks. "Is something worrying you, Captain?" she asks. "Is there something you'd like to tell me?"

"You already know everything I've got to say," he says, dredging up a smile from somewhere. "Besides, it's my job to worry. That's why they gave me an extra rank stripe. Comes with the territory."

"Extra stripes on your sleeves don't make you superhuman."

Jim opens his mouth to throw out a sarcastic quip, but it freezes on his tongue. Feeling a heavy weight of responsibility settling over him, he sighs. "No, but it means I've got to be good at pretending I am."

* * *

><p>By the time he finally makes it back to his quarters at the end of the day, he's exhausted. His shoulders are aching with tension and he has the beginning of a headache. He's had heartburn since dinner, even though he stuck to the blandest choices on the menu, soup and bread. He tosses off his shirts, leaving them on the floor in a tangled bundle beside his desk. Kicking off his boots and socks, he lets them fall wherever their trajectory takes them, and collapses onto the bed with a groan.<p>

Bones would be rolling his eyes at this point, if not making some scathing comment about Jim's upbringing or hygienic habits. For some reason, he thinks gathering up one's dirty laundry is a sign of good character, which Jim obviously lacks. "Who's supposed to pick up your clothes? Your yeoman?" he asked Jim, not long after he first spent the night in Jim's bed. "Not me, I hope, because there's no way in hell that I'm touching your sweaty uniform."

"I'll pick everything up in the morning. Probably." He has an arrangement with Rand that if he's left his clothes lying on the floor, she doesn't touch them.

"I don't get it, Jim. You keep this place obsessively neat. A particle of dust would get lonely here, just looking for some company. There's practically nothing in here to show that a real person lives here, let alone the captain of the ship!"

"There's power in empty space."

"Maybe that's what it means to _you_. To me, this room has no character. It could belong to anyone."

"This is _my_ character," he says, somewhat insulted. "I like to keep things simple and clean!"

"Then why the hell do you leave your clothes all over the floor?"

Bones seems to think that it's some kind of misplaced teenage rebellion, but he's got it all wrong. Jim's as deliberate about the mess as he is about keeping the rest of the room tidy. From the time he moved out of his mother's house, he's kept his personal space orderly. He had no trouble adjusting to the Academy's rigid standards about keeping his living quarters neat and organized at all times. He understood the reasoning behind it and fully accepted it.

It was different when he was a kid. Jim's side of the room was cluttered, his closet overflowing with discarded sports equipment, and his toys and collections piled haphazardly on the shelves. Sam, on the other hand, was compulsively neat, and it used to drive him crazy that Jim would refuse to make his bed for weeks on end. It was one of the few areas in which Sam and Frank saw eye to eye. Frank was disgusted by the mess, calling it a sign of disrespect-Jim had to agree with him on that point-and weakness of character. "You're living in _my_ house, buddy," he used to say. "You'll follow _my_ rules."

Frank missed no opportunity to point out that he owned the farmhouse. Jim parents hadn't had the chance or inclination to buy a permanent residence before George was killed, and afterward, his mother never had the energy. It was easier just to move in with her brother Frank, who had two extra bedrooms in his broken-down old farmhouse.

When he left home, he'd had almost nothing at first, just the most basic clothes, his PADD, and a few credits. He spent most of his first year scrambling around for money, doing odd jobs and earning just enough to pay his rent and food. It was the first time in his life that he hadn't had _enough_ of something-except, maybe, attention, encouragement, and affection, which had been lacking for the better part of his childhood-and after the first shock, he came to like it. He was pared down to the barest essentials. He traveled light, and that gave him freedom. He made his own choices, for better or worse, and if he decided to drink away his wages instead of saving them, well, that was up to him.

Even years later, he never cared much for possessions. A room was just a room, and it was people who mattered. The few things he did bring on board with him - some real paper books, his trophy for the Rigel Cup that he won with his flight squad, and a small jar of sand from the beach near the Academy - he kept on a shelf, out of the way. Bones was probably right, he kept his room a little _too_ neat. But it gave him a sense of safety, of being in control.

And the dirty clothes? His way of laughing at himself, of making sure he didn't make a scene about life's little messes. Every morning when he saw the crumpled clothes and the boots scattered all over the floor, he could remember that a little disorder was good for the soul... especially if _he_ was the one doing the disordering.

He can hear Dehner's voice echoing in his mind. _We can't control how other species will react. Sometimes we can't even control how we react ourselves. _

Damn it.

He pushes himself up from the bed, shedding the rest of his clothes on the way to the head. Maybe a shower, even a sonic one, will get him out of the maudlin mood he's been stuck in. Pausing at the doorway, he catches sight of himself in the mirror.

He looks terrible. He's pale, his eyes are red-rimmed, and he's slouching. Straightening his shoulders, he gives himself a critical once-over. He's lost weight, and now he's bordering on thin. It makes him look younger and more vulnerable, and he doesn't like it. He must have been kidding himself to think that Spock wouldn't notice. His muscles seem less defined, and his abs... they look a little paunchy.

He turns sideways, frowning at his reflection. There's a definite softness in that area that wasn't there before. He's been feeling nauseous and weak for weeks now, and hasn't worked out enough, so maybe this is the result.

Rationally, he knows that he doesn't look _pregnant_. The embryo weighs only two grams, and the uterine sac only a bit more. It's his imagination, or maybe-

_Oh, no_.It's the hormones. It must be. Bones said that he wouldn't feel the side effects, but he's wrong. How could he think that progesterone and... whatever the other thing Bones gave him is called... wouldn't affect him? It's obvious: they're making him bloated.

He feels ugly, out of shape, and weak. It's just as well he's kept Bones at an arm's length since Antos. He wouldn't want him to see how he's lost muscle tone, how skinny and unappealing he's become. He'd be embarrassed to be seen like this.

He scowls down at the strip of plastic and sensors around his wrist, the one piece of clothing that he can't take off. Damned med sensor. It's a constant reminder of Bones' worry. It never lets him forget that there's something so wrong with him that he needs to be monitored _all the fucking time_.

Making a sudden decision, he whirls around, stepping out of the bathroom and back into his bedroom. What he needs is to take action, not moan and groan and feel sorry for himself. He hunts up his favorite Academy t-shirt and an old pair of shorts from his closet. It's later than he usually works out, but so much the better. Maybe the gym will be empty. He smiles grimly to himself. God knows he doesn't want his crew to watch him take another walk.

Glancing down again at the med sensor, it occurs to him that there may be a way around the problem. He can't take it off, and even if he did, Bones would be notified immediately. And if he does anything more taxing than a brisk walk, the sensor will trigger the alarm, and Bones will undoubtedly rush in and put a stop to it.

Unless he _can't._

Feeling slightly more empowered, he heads out.

* * *

><p>The door to Fitness Studio Two slides open, and Jim feels his irritation and frustration give way to a kind of satisfaction. It feels like playing hooky or stealing a piece of candy before dinner. He knows he shouldn't be here, but he really doesn't give a shit anymore.<p>

It won't hurt him. It's just a regular workout. He's always been in excellent physical condition. But if he doesn't get some real exercise, his cardiovascular fitness level is going to slip and he'll start losing muscle strength. He can't let that happen. It's _his_ body, and _he's_ going to control it. Not Bones. Not the Antosians. Not some little sac of cells that's _just a fucking embryo_.

He looks around the gym and quickly realizes he's not alone. Of course, he should have expected that. Sure, it's gamma shift, and most crew members are either asleep or on duty, but there's always someone who wants to get in a late workout.

Jim follows the sound of rapid footsteps and heavy breathing to the cardio area to find Lieutenant Junior Grade Raji sweating it out on one of the holo-treadmills. While Jim has no idea what view the man has programmed for his workout, he seems to be enjoying it thoroughly, lost in the sights, sounds, and even smells of the programming. It's not real, but it's so close to running free - _free _- that Jim feels like he's about to burst if he doesn't break loose. Right now.

"Captain!" Raji's voice breaks through Jim's thoughts. His eyes are focused past the projected images. "Never seen you down here at this hour, sir."

Jim smiles casually. "Well, sometimes going for a good run at night works for me when I can't sleep. It's better than asking Doctor McCoy for something. His hypospray technique's pretty heavy handed."

Raji laughs breathlessly. "No argument there, sir."

Jim makes a movement towards one of the nearby platforms, then hesitates. Even as Captain, it's inappropriate for him to abuse his authority to monopolize ship resources that are meant for everyone. Still, he just desperately wants to be alone right now. "How much more have you got to go, Raji?"

He nods. "Computer, routine display." Raji's eyes re-focus on a point directly in front of him where the stats of his routine are projected: distance, calories burned, time, elevation change. "I was planning about twenty more minutes, Captain," he huffs, "but... I don't mind cutting it a little short."

Immediately, Jim tries to wave him off, even though that's exactly what he wants. "No, finish your workout. I shouldn't have asked."

"It's all right. I've been dragging my heels today, and I should probably go get some sleep." He wipes the sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Computer, end workout."

Jim feels only slightly guilty as the platform slows to a halt and the holo-emitters power down. "You didn't have to do that, but I appreciate it."

Raji nods as he grabs his towel from a nearby rack. "I understand, sir. It's hard to find privacy on this ship, and sometimes, you need to be alone to think. That's why I come down here to exercise at this hour." He flips the towel over his shoulder. "Enjoy your workout, Captain."

"Thanks."

Raji walks out the door of the gym, leaving the room blissfully quiet and empty. In the silence, the giddy, immature feeling of breaking the rules returns, and Jim grins to himself.

Then he sobers. The privacy is delicious, but if he wants to keep it, he's going to have to do something that really is an inappropriate use of his authority. If Spock finds out, he'll probably do a lot more than just raise an eyebrow. In fact, chances are good that Jim would get into serious trouble with HQ if they found out. But he _needs_this, and the last thing he wants is to see Bones charging through the door like a personal nanny, ready to stop the program and chew him out.

Walking determinedly across the room to the door's control panel, Jim calls up the lockout screen."Computer, activate security lockout level one for Fitness Studio Two, authorization Kirk alpha theta one two six delta."

"_Authorization accepted. Captain's security lockout activated."_

He nods in satisfaction before turning and jogging lightly back to the holo-treadmill. His heart is already pumping in anticipation. Stepping up onto the platform, he says, "Routine - Yellowstone Park Three." He thinks for a moment. "One hour duration. Difficulty level four."

The air around him seems to vibrate for a split second, and then he's surrounded by images of rocks and hills. A stream twists along in the distance. Beneath his feet, the platform takes on the appearance of a dirt path. _"Program ready. Begin running."_

With adrenaline already giving him a heady buzz, Jim lets his feet pound over the platform as the surface tilts and shifts to simulate the changing incline of the trail. The path he's running on twists up a hill, into the woods, and he balls his hands into fists and powers himself up the slope. Trees rush by on either side, and sunlight streams through the forest canopy.

Usually, when he's running, he thinks. But his mind was racing when he came in, and all he wants now is for the chaotic swirl of thoughts to disappear. He wants to get lost in the fake images, the imaginary forest. Pretend that he's free, not trapped on his own starship. Imagine that he's unhindered by problems that should never have happened. Couldn't have happened. He just needs to escape.

He's had a recurring dream since childhood, a scene that plays out in his mind over and over again. It always starts in Frank's old farmhouse, the house he grew up in, back in Riverside. Someone's coming after him and he has to escape. Sometimes he wiggles out through one of the upper-story windows and has to jump to the ground from the roof. Or he has to hide out in the storm cellar until he can slip away, unseen. It always starts differently, but in all of the dreams, he finds himself being chased. He's got to get away, and he moves as swiftly as he can through residential yards and fields, terrified that he'll be caught. He tries to run, but his knees turn to jelly and his feet skid on the mud. He's running from some unnamed threat, and they're almost upon him.

Then it happens. In the dream, his legs find their stride, and his steps become smoother, stronger, almost effortless. The tenor of the dream changes and he forgets that he's being chased. He's outrun them anyway, and the only thing he can focus on is that thrilling sensation of being able to run as fast and as far as he wants.

He's never had a flying dream, or at least not one he can recall. But in his dreams, he runs, and the sense of freedom is the same. He's never stopped to analyze just what he's running from, or who's chasing him, or why escape is such a charged concept for him. All he knows is that when he manages to do it in the dream, he wakes with a sense of having accomplished something important.

With a surge of determination, he kicks up his speed on the treadmill. He has the feeling that if he's fast enough, he'll outrun his own problems. He'll leave everything behind. At the very least, he'll prove to Bones that he doesn't need to restrict his workouts. And he'll prove to himself that he's still in control of his life.

The flicker of light through the trees is mesmerizing, and his feet fly over the trail. There's wind in his hair, and as he inhales, the smell of cedar fills his nostrils. His heart is pounding, his chest is heaving, and his mind is blank, and it's _sheer bliss_.

The trail twists through the forest, deeper and darker, around boulders and enormous trees and up another slope. Then he bursts out of the woods into bright sunlight as the trail takes him through an open field. Tall grass whips alongside him as he runs, waving in the breeze.

A sudden pain in his right thigh instantly shakes him from his reverie, and he almost stumbles. Deep and sharp - _a_cramp, he realizes. He hasn't run in weeks. Shit, he should have stretched first, but he was too eager. He's out of shape, and it's his own fault for letting himself get soft. But it's just a cramp - _it_ _hurts like a motherfucker, though _- and he's run through cramps before.

Breathing less easily now, trying to work through the pain, he slows down a little bit. Longer, slower strides. Stretch it out. Yeah, he definitely should have warmed up better beforehand. It's a good thing Bones isn't here, because he can just imagine the lecture he'd give him for not stretching...

Actually, if he's being honest, Bones would probably just skip that part and give him hell for even being in the gym.

A surge of resentment wells up in his chest. He's sick and tired of being held back. His anger spurs him on, and he leans into his stride, trying to run faster again.

He makes it four more steps before the cramp turns into an excruciating stab, deep through his thigh. His leg won't hold him, and he stumbles, holding his arms out instinctively for balance. But there's nothing to grab, and his momentum takes him over the edge of the platform in a headlong tumble. Vaguely, he hears the computer announce, "_Program interrupted. Please resume running."_

He lands in a heap on the far side of the treadmill, and immediately reaches for his leg. He's out of breath and a little disoriented from the fall, and the pain in his leg is agonizing now. He hisses out loud, trying to massage the pain away, but it's too deep, too sharp, and it doesn't feel like any cramp he's ever had. The pain is making him nauseous. Light headed.

Something is definitely very wrong, and Bones is going to _kill _him.

Breathing in great gulps of air, he tries to roll onto his knees. He's got to get up. But when he rolls, the pain redoubles, and he collapses back to the floor, clutching at his thigh. This isn't normal, and it's becoming clear that he's not going to get up without help.

"Computer," he gasps. "Need location of... Doctor McCoy."

"_Doctor McCoy is in the deck eight corridor, outside Fitness Studio Two."_

_He's right outside the door. The door that I locked_. It's then that Jim notices the faint sound of pounding on the door, even through the blood rushing in his ears. "Computer... cancel lockout... on Fitness Studio Two... authorization -" The pain in his thigh surges even stronger, and he can feel his foot starting to prickle like pins and needles.

"_Awaiting authorization code._"

Jim clenches his jaw, trying to breathe through the pain. "Authorization... Kirk... alpha theta... one two six... delta."

"_Authorization accepted."_

The door hisses open, and to his great relief, Bones bursts through the doors.

* * *

><p>Leonard sits back in his armchair with a heavy flop, crooks up a leg, and props his PADD against his knee. It's been a long day, and he should be asleep, but the data packet on the latest microsurgical techniques just arrived from Starfleet Medical. He might not be able to process all of the information tonight, but he needs to make some headway if he wants to get any real rest. He hasn't slept right in weeks... not since Jim was rescued from Antos. It's bad enough that he's barely spent a moment with Jim that didn't involve medical tests, scans, and lectures about eating enough.<p>

They certainly haven't shared a bed, and Leonard never realized how cold his bed is without Jim. His sleep is haunted by images of Jim as they found him on the planet - bruised, blind, starved, and almost ready to give up. The nightmares had barely started to ease up when the aftermath of the Antosians' handiwork had struck, bringing a whole new set of nightmares. His only hope is that he can find a way to fix it.

He wants to comfort Jim, but there's nothing he can offer at this point, other than to solve this ridiculous medical mystery and free Jim from the growing problem before it kills him. It's already taken so much from him, and it's painful to watch. He hates telling Jim no... for anything. Jim might believe otherwise, but he'd give the kid the world if he could. And now, it feels like everything he's doing to protect Jim just rips something else away from him.

Jim loves his long runs. Loves leading landing party missions. Loves his freedom and physical independence. Leonard has restricted his workouts, banned him from the landing party, stuck a med sensor on him, and put him on hormones that a male body should never experience... and he still doesn't have a way to remove the root cause of the problem safely. The guilt makes him feel sick.

It's bad enough that he still hasn't told Jim that Spock, as first officer, will have to be informed of the captain's condition before the surgery. Sure, as long as Jim is stable, he can keep it a secret. Well, strike that - he _shouldn't _be keeping it a secret. This is the captain of a Starfleet vessel. His health status affects the whole crew and the mission, and Leonard McCoy has a duty to the ship as CMO. But this is also Jim, and Bones has a duty to Jim as... something. He hasn't figured it out yet. Either way, the inevitable betrayal of informing Spock won't go over well. Nor will the fact that Spock will be obligated to inform Starfleet.

_He_ should have told Starfleet. The fact that he hasn't... well, the fallout could be ugly. But it's _Jim_, and the poor kid has been through enough hell without his unique medical problem being made public. Leonard's medical reports about the captain have been deliberately vague since they found the embryo. As far as Starfleet knows, Captain Kirk has a stomach bug that he picked up from his ordeal on Antos, and it's just taking some time to settle his system. Leonard isn't exactly lying through his nose to Starfleet Medical, but he's withholding some vital information, and if anything goes wrong, he can kiss his career goodbye. He knows the risk, but dammit, he'd risk anything to make this easier on Jim.

At least he's not lying when he tells Jim he's getting closer. It's just that it's not close enough. He's tried every technique available to him on surgical simulations, and has even re-tried some of the earlier models. His success rate is over 60% now, and the rate of catastrophic failure is less than 5%, but that still leaves him with a 35% chance of causing some nasty damage to Jim's circulatory system. That's just not good enough.

He'll figure it out soon, though. If Jim can just hang in there, and not do anything stupid, maybe they can keep his condition stable until Leonard has the success rate up to 85%, with negligible chance of catastrophic failure. That's his threshold, and he won't operate until his chances are at least that good. Not as long as Jim is otherwise stable. Not when it's Jim's life and career on the line.

He taps the screen of his PADD and pulls up the first research article. Microcellular surgery might be the key. He needs to remove every trace of the implanted tissue, or it won't work.

The problem is the structure of the bioengineered tissue. The collagen-like protein isn't _right_. The Antosians tried to make collagen, but the protein structure is unstable, and it's tightly fused into Jim's blood vessels. Many of his attempts to remove the artificial blood vessels in simulations have left tissue remnants behind. Each time he tries to fuse the regular aorta back together, the artificial tissue ruptures. Alternately, whenever he manages to get all of the artificial cells out, he runs the risk of removing too much of the healthy artery and restricting blood flow. He's tried simply removing the embryo and the sac, with the intent of clamping off the artificial blood vessels without removing them, but that technique led to an aneurysm in almost every trial. The artificial tissues just seem to impede the process, no matter what he tries.

He tabs to the next page of the document, then reaches over to his table for his glass of bourbon - because, Lord knows, he _needs_ a drink on days like this - when a beeping sound startles him hard enough that he almost sends the liquor flying.

He twists around in his seat to see a small red light on his comm blinking. Jim's med sensor is registering activity outside the pre-set parameters.

It's gone off a few times since Jim started wearing it. The first time was because Jim was using the access ladders to climb between decks. "Take the damned turbolift," was all Leonard had said_._ The second time, Leonard was giving him a hypospray of anti-nausea meds. "Guess you really _do_ hate these things," he'd said, looking at the readings showing Jim's galloping heart rate and soaring blood pressure. "Next time we'll try a pill."

The third time, the alarm went off when Jim was on the Bridge. "What's going on up there, Captain?" he'd barked over the intercom, mentally readying himself for one of the many catastrophic scenarios he's had going through his head since this nightmare began.

"There's nothing unusual happening here, Dr. McCoy," Jim's voice came back, maddeningly calm. "We're still en route to Telos. Traffic's light."

He didn't believe him - the med sensor was an ad hoc lie detector, so he knew that _something_ had stressed Jim's system - but when he arrived on the Bridge a few minutes later to see for himself, Jim was sitting in his chair, PADD on his lap. His expression was bored, but his cheeks were suspiciously red. In response to Leonard's pointed look, Jim finally scribbled something on his PADD about Uhura dropping her earpiece and bending over to pick it up. _Come on, Bones! I'm a red-blooded male with a pulse. What did you expect?_ _If you don't want to know every time I pop a boner, recalibrate the damned alarm._

That was five days ago. Leonard took Jim's advice and adjusted the alarm to a slightly higher threshold, and since then, it's been quiet. But right now, it's gamma shift. Jim isn't on duty. He shouldn't be doing anything at this hour except sleeping.

Scowling, Leonard taps a command into the screen on his lap, accessing the sensor readout through his PADD._  
><em>  
>This isn't some brief bit of exertion or a flare of sexual arousal. Jim's heart rate is racing along at 168 beats per minute, and it's not slowing down. The reckless sonofabitch has got to be-<p>

"Computer! Location of Captain Kirk."

"_Captain Kirk is in Fitness Studio Two."_

"Shit," he hisses as he lurches out of his chair, barely catching his PADD before it falls. Jim has to be running, probably on one of those ridiculous contraptions, the crazy bastard. Leonard grabs his comm and flips it open. "McCoy to Kirk." He waits a heartbeat, then yells into the comm again. "McCoy to Kirk! Dammit, Jim, answer your comm!"

No response, and Leonard is going to strangle Jim as soon as he gets down there. In a practiced motion, he stuffs his comm unit back onto his belt, grabs his emergency med kit from its spot by the door, and takes off down the hall. Waiting for the turbolift, he makes another attempt to raise Jim on the comm, with no luck. Then he's on deck eight, racing towards the gym.

And colliding with the door.

He shakes his head, startled that the door didn't automatically open at his approach. He backs up a couple of steps, and tries to move towards it again. Still, the door doesn't budge. "What the devil... Computer! Open the door to Fitness Studio Two."

"_Unable to comply. Fitness Studio Two has been secured."_

"Secured? Override it! Emergency medical override, authorization McCoy gamma two seven omega!"

"_Override denied."_

"I'm the Chief Medical Officer! Don't give me this horse shit. Override the lockout."

"_Unable to comply._"

"Of all the..." He stops, frustrated. Ranting at the computer isn't going to help. "Why are you _unable to comply_, then?" He gives the door a good kick. He's under no illusions that it will open in response, but maybe Jim will hear it.

"_Lockout has been placed under the captain's authorization, security level one."_

"_What?"_ That's the maximum level of security lockout. Typically, it's only used in the worst possible tactical situations, when the Captain and First Officer need to lock out any possible intruders. It's a last-resort safety measure for use in a crisis... and it's the only level that won't accept Leonard's medical override. Jim's using it so he can have his damned workout without being interrupted.

"McCoy to Spock!"

A few interminable seconds later, there's a reply. "_Spock here_."

"Spock, we've got a situation. The captain has placed a level one security lockout on the door to Fitness Studio Two. I need you to get down here to override it."

Spock sounds perplexed. "_Why would the captain place a level one security lockout on a fitness facility?"_

"Because the man is a reckless idiot, that's why! I restricted him from his normal workout routines, and he obviously doesn't want to listen."

"_If you have instructed him not to exercise, it would be illogical for him to countermand those orders, particularly if he wishes to recover enough to regain medical clearance for landing parties."__  
><em>

"For God's sake, Spock, don't debate it! Jim isn't responding to my comm. This could be a medical emergency, and I need you to get your green backside down here now!"

"_I am on my way. Spock out._"

He flips his comm shut and stuffs it back into its holder before turning back to the door. "Jim!" Leonard slams his hand against the door, which only succeeds in hurting his hand. "Come on, Jim! Open up!" He bangs on the door again, not caring that his hand is aching. "Jim!"

He swears to himself, if Jim is simply in there ignoring him while he goes for a pleasant run, the kid will never hear the end of it. He'll have the foolhardy idiot tied down in sickbay under constant guard until the embryo is gone and Jim is back to his old self. And if Jim is incapable of responding...

In a surge of desperation he pounds on the door again. "Jim! Can you hear me? Jim, please, open the door _now_!"

Just then the door hisses open, as if in response to his words.

Leonard races into the fitness studio, yelling, "For the love of God, Jim I thought I told you to stay away from those treadmills!" But there's no answer, and at first glance, the gym seems deserted. Then...

"_Bones..._"

Something in the thick, desperate sound of Jim's voice causes Leonard's heart to catch in his throat. He follows the sound towards the cardio area and finally sees the kid on the ground, clutching his right thigh, in obvious pain. Leonard almost stumbles at the sight, and sprinting to his side, he kneels on the floor next to Jim, tricorder in hand. "What the hell were you thinking, Jim? What happened?"

"I think it's a cramp," Jim gasps, still holding his thigh, "but... it's... it's not... going away." His face is covered in a sheen of sweat, but not the healthy sweat of a good workout. His skin has a gray tinge, and as sure as Leonard is a doctor, that's _not_a cramp.

"Move your hands away, Jim. I need to scan this." Leonard runs the tricorder probe along Jim's thigh. The readings paint a picture that makes his gut freeze. "This is serious, Jim. You've got an embolus - a clot - in your femoral artery."

"A _what_?"

He doesn't have time to explain, but Jim's a smart man, and Leonard is pretty sure he knows what a clot is. Trying to quell the anger-horror-fear fighting for dominance, Leonard whips out his communicator. "McCoy to sickbay! I need a stretcher in Fitness Studio Two immediately!"

"_Yes, Doctor." _He recognizes the clipped tones of Celia Zhang, one of the gamma shift nurses._"Dispatching a team of medics now_."

"Good. And prep a surgical suite for emergency intra-arterial surgery."

"_Yes, sir."_

"What do you mean, surgery?" Jim grits out. "I don't need-"

"Shut up!" Grabbing his his emergency med kit, he snaps a vial of hydroparinux into the hypospray - emergency anticoagulant treatment. It won't fix the clot, but it will hopefully keep it from getting worse.

He reaches up to press the device against Jim's neck, but stops at the look of stark terror mixed with pain splashed across his face. He reminds himself that his anger is the last thing Jim needs right now, and deliberately lowers his voice. "I'm giving you an anticoagulant to start treating the clot, and to prevent you from getting another one. And a painkiller."

He injects the drug as gently as possible, then quickly grabs and administers an analgesic before he puts the hypospray aside. Leonard doesn't have the heart to tell Jim that analgesics will barely put a dent in the pain of an arterial embolus. The kid already looks scared enough. He's not even protesting about the hypospray... just follows Leonard's movements with wide, haunted eyes.

He'll get a better scan as soon as he gets Jim to sickbay, but he'll never trust instruments as much as he trusts his own senses. Jim is wearing shorts, which makes it easy to examine his leg. The skin is gray, cool to the touch, and clammy. He presses his fingers sharply into Jim's thigh, lower leg, and then ankle, moving his fingers around slightly, feeling for the pulse.

Jim flinches at the pain, but that's not what's got Leonard worried. "You've got no pulse in your lower leg, Jim. Your artery is completely blocked."

"Is that... that's really bad... isn't it?"

"Yeah, kid. It's bad."

Jim makes a pained noise, then moves to rub his leg, but Leonard grabs his hand. "Don't touch it, Jim! You'll only make it worse."

Jim nods, then bites his lip. He's looking even more pale, and his breathing is ragged and labored. "Why... what caused... the clot?"

Leonard squeezes his hand, feeling completely helpless. He doesn't know exactly what caused the clot, but he's got a few good guesses. He'll have more answers once he scans Jim more thoroughly, but now, he's got to keep Jim distracted. The pain from an arterial embolus is excruciating. "Screwed up blood flow in your abdominal aorta, maybe. Hormones can cause clots, too."

"Fuck." Jim makes a low sound in his throat, like a choked off groan, and squeezes his eyes shut for a second. "It really hurts..."

"I know, Jim. I've got a stretcher on the way. The clot... it could have been building up for a little while now, since the last scan I did, and the increased blood flow from exercising dislodged it. Or the exercise might have caused it to form. Maybe a combination of factors. There's no way for me to know. But right now... I've gotta get you into surgery."

There's the hiss of a door sliding open, and Leonard is expecting to see the medics with the stretcher, but Spock runs in, looking marginally more agitated than seems normal on a Vulcan. "Doctor McCoy, I see you were able to get into the room."

Before Leonard can reply, Jim gasps out a frantic, "What did you call him for?"

Leonard stares down at him in disbelief. "Are you kidding me? Jim, you locked the door using the highest security setting. The only person who could override it is Spock, and what if you'd been unconscious?"

Jim groans, then presses his fist against his mouth as if to silence himself. Closing his eyes again, he turns his head to the side, away from them both.

"Captain, why would you place a security lockout on the door of a fitness studio?"

"I wanted some privacy for once," Jim grinds out between clenched teeth, eyes still shut. He's looking even more pale. Leonard reaches out to touch his leg. It feels colder and more clammy than before.

"A normal lockout would have been sufficient..." Spock raises an eyebrow. "Unless you were specifically trying to prevent Doctor McCoy from entering."

Jim's eyes pop open. "Spock, that's not -"

Leonard silences him with a firm hand on the shoulder, but he's looking at Spock. "_Not now_, you bipedal computer! Can't you see he's -" He's cut off as the door opens again, this time admitting two medics and the stretcher. "Well, it's about time, dammit! Get him on the stretcher, and go easy on the right leg. Out of the way, Spock."

Spock silently steps aside, and Leonard turns all of his attention back to Jim, who has gone from just gray to slightly green. He cringes away from the medic who is reaching for his shoulders to lift him onto the stretcher, and Leonard steps in. "I've got his head." The medic looks confused, but steps aside to let Leonard reach beneath Jim's shoulders to hoist him onto the stretcher.

Jim pants in shallow breaths as they raise the stretcher and secure him for transport. Beyond the obvious signs of pain and pallor, he looks like he's mentally not all there. Eyes are unfocused and distant. He's too outwardly cooperative. If Leonard's guess is right, Jim's terrified. But it's nothing he can fix right now, so he nods to the medics. "Let's go."

The trip to sickbay is short, but still seems to be too long as far as Jim's concerned. His fingers are wrapped tight around the edges of the stretcher, and he makes small, involuntary noises of discomfort every time he's jostled. By the time they push through the sickbay doors, his pallor has reached his lips, and he looks ready to pass out, despite the painkiller.

Feeling sympathetic, Leonard calls out for a hypospray of sedative. They can move Jim to the biobed and start the IV with the continuous anesthetics after he's unconscious. It will be more comfortable for him, and he's been through enough.

He explains what he's doing to Jim, but as he reaches over with the hypospray, Jim's hand snakes up and grabs his wrist.

Leonard is so startled that he almost drops the hypospray. "Jim?"

Jim peers up at him anxiously, but it's the look of remorse breaking through the pain that packs the punch. "I'm sorry, Bones."

Leonard feels his throat tighten. "I know you are, kid. And we'll talk about this later. But first, we've got to take care of you." He holds up the hypospray. "Sedative. Ready?"

"Do I have a choice?" Jim says sullenly, face still screwed up in pain.

"Not this time, Jim."

Jim takes another uneasy breath, then nods.

The hypospray hisses against Jim's jugular vein, and seconds later, his eyelids flutter closed and his body goes limp. The image wrenches something in Leonard's chest, but he quickly shakes it off as he helps transfer Jim onto the biobed. Nurse Zhang is setting up the sterile field, Reynolds is starting the IV for the anesthesia, and Leonard is picking up the vascular stabilizer and laser scalpel.

But Bones is staring at his best friend, lying on the biobed still as death, and desperately wondering where he went wrong.

* * *

><p><strong>AN**: As always, comments are greatly appreciated!


	5. Chapter 5

**Day 44**

Leonard hasn't left Jim's bedside. It's the middle of gamma shift, he's exhausted, and sickbay is quiet except for the muffled sounds of Zhang restocking the surgical suite. With the clot successfully removed, the incisions closed, and Jim's condition stable, he could have gone back to his quarters and maybe gotten some sleep.

No, he couldn't have. Not really. Not until he sees those baby blues crack open... so he can give Jim a piece of his goddamned mind.

Maybe he should go easy on him. Jim knows just how badly he screwed this up. Leonard can't stop picturing the look of sheer terror on Jim's face as they rushed him towards sickbay, and the gut-wrenching look of remorse that had twisted his pale, pained expression until the sedatives had knocked him out. Hell, for Jim, just being in sickbay is punishment enough. But then again, he'd tried to go easy on Jim before, and the end result of that had been a violation of medical restrictions and emergency surgery for a potentially life-threatening complication.

Right now, Leonard is almost sick with worry - not over the clot. That's been fixed. No, the real problem is what happens after Jim walks out of sickbay again. Leonard's furious, really... as much with himself as with Jim.

Jim can't keep going like this. The embryo - almost a fetus now - has got to go, and soon. But in the meantime, Jim's got to hang in there just a little bit longer. As if it's not enough that Leonard still isn't ready with the microcellular surgical techniques, he'd have to wait until Jim recovers from this fiasco anyway. It's a setback, and a dangerous warning sign, and it probably happened because the idiot was too much of a stubborn fool to listen to his orders for once.

Leonard rubs his eyes tiredly. God, he needs some sleep. This is taking a toll on him, too. He's been spending every spare minute during the day reviewing surgical techniques and running countless simulations. Then at night, when he's exhausted and could really use some company, Jim avoids him. He misses his best friend, and dammit, he needs some physical release. Not even necessarily sex, but at least some skin-to-skin contact and somebody to _talk _to.

Jim stirs, and almost automatically, Bones reaches for his hand, but he stops mid-movement and pulls his hand back. For the moment, he needs to distance himself, if he's going to have a chance of saying the things he has to say.

He watches Jim struggle towards wakefulness, wanting to soothe him but taking the time just to observe him instead. He's seen Jim come out of anesthesia enough times to know that it's not an easy process for him. Most people experience a fairly smooth rise in consciousness levels, feeling drowsy and relaxed as awareness returns. For Jim, it's like he fights the whole way, kicking and clawing his way upwards, even as the drugs still circulating in his bloodstream haven't fully relinquished their grip on him.

Jim's mouth starts moving, and finally forms a word. "_Bones..._" Eyes still closed, his hand gropes along the side of the biobed, as if he's reaching for something to anchor him.

"I'm here, Jim." He sighs, and takes Jim's hand. "It's over. Open your eyes."

Bleary eyes flicker open, and immediately begin to dart back and forth, as if he's trying to reassure himself that he's in sickbay, safe, and not... somewhere else. "Bones... is it... am I..."

"Your leg is fine fine, kid," Leonard answers. "We got the clot out in one piece. Easy, clean surgery. No permanent damage to your artery or leg tissues."

"The... embryo?"

"Stable."

There's both relief and disappointment reflected in Jim's gaze. He must have been hoping that the embryo would be gone as well. "Are there any..." He shivers suddenly, and his eyes close again. "'m cold."

Leonard pulls the blanket up higher and activates the biobed's warming function. The thermoregulatory drug he administered should have taken care of any post-operative shivering, but trust Jim to respond atypically. He increases the dose slightly through Jim's IV.

Jim's shivering gradually subsides, but he seems to have fallen back into a doze. "Are there any _what_, Jim?" Leonard prompts.

"Mmm..." His eyes flicker open for just a second. "There any... cuts?"

"I used microtools in the surgery, and the incisions are fully healed already."

"Good." He opens his eyes fully, finding Leonard's face this time. "I can... walk on it, 's okay now?"

"You'll need to take it easy for a few days, but yes. Walking's fine." He offers a small smile. "In fact, we'll want to get you up and out of bed to walk in a couple of hours. Not far. Just around sickbay. That will help with your circulation."

Jim nods, blinking a few times. His eyes turn downwards, as if he's taking stock of his own body. Really, there's nothing unusual to see. He's got a light blanket covering him from the chest down, but even so, there are no bandages, no bruises, the two tiny incisions are healed, and no significant support equipment. But then Jim's mouth twists into a frown, and he reaches for the IV in his hand.

Quickly, Leonard grabs Jim's hand and stops him. "Whoa, hands off the equipment!"

"Don't want that."

Leonard rolls his eyes. Jim's made it quite clear in the past how much he despises the IV, even more than hyposprays. "Well, you need it, and complaining isn't going to change that."

"Why?"

The question infuriates Leonard. Stubborn fool isn't even fully lucid from the anesthesia, but he's already uncooperative. "Because your risk for a second clot would be dangerously high without those meds, at least for now, and I'd really rather not have to yank another clot out of one of your arteries. Trust me, that would be a far less pleasant alternative."

Jim's expression is looking more and more anxious as his gaze flicks from the tube embedded in his hand to the monitor equipment above the biobed, and Leonard doesn't miss the way his heart rate spikes slightly. "Jim..."

"I don't like this."

"I know you don't, but that's what you get for locking yourself in the gym for a kamikaze workout. Which I expressly told you _not _to do." He can't keep the anger out of his voice, and he feels a small sense of vindication when Jim flinches.

"I'm sorry. I didn't expect this to happen. I just wanted some space... somewhere I could do some thinking, alone." His face looks a bit paler suddenly, and his breathing is getting shallow and rapid. "Come on, take out the IV, Bones, I'm awake now."

"_Jim. _Stop this and listen to me. You need to rest, and I don't need you fighting me." If Jim doesn't calm down on his own, they'll have to drug him. "Come on, Jim."

Jim's gaze finally finds his face, even though his eyes are still a bit unfocused. "You know I can't relax here. I'll just go rest in my quarters, okay?"

In an instant, a burning anger surges up in Leonard's chest. "_What_? Are you out of your ever-lovin' mind?" Jim's barely awake, just out of surgery, and already asking to get out of sickbay? _Unbelievable_.

Jim stares up at him owlishly. "You said it's fixed. No damage, right?"

Leonard feels his eyebrows working themselves into a scowl. "No damage," he says with a huff. "Yeah, kid, there's no damage... _this_ time. Do you know how bad that could have been? You could have thrown a clot to your heart or your brain. You could have had irreversible brain damage. You're actually _lucky _that it just hurt like hell and stopped your workout. Do you get that?"

To Leonard's surprise, Jim nods. "I get it, Bones. I fucked up. I'm not going to do it again. I won't exercise, I swear. I'll come back here for whatever tests you want." He's not smiling; his expression is completely serious. "So... will you let me leave?"

For all of Jim's efforts to look determined and trustworthy, Leonard can't miss the underlying fear. _Damn it. _As much as the kid has never liked doctors, sickbay, or being a patient, this seems to be developing into a full-blown phobia, complete with irrational behavior, unmitigated panic, and uncontrolled emotional reactions. Not that Leonard can really blame him. Jim went through medical hell on Antos, and his personal nightmare isn't over yet.

A phobia can be treated, given time. But for now, Jim's just going to have to suck it up. He can't let his fear get the better of him - _again _- and put his recovery at risk.

"Snap out of it, Jim. No, stop. Look at me, and think about what you're asking."

"I know what I'm asking." Jim's face is a calm mask, but the biobed monitor lets out a soft _ping_. The scanners are registering what Jim's trying to hide: increased sympathetic nervous system activity. Stress reaction.

"And do you have any idea how crazy that sounds right now? You'll leave when I clear you, and not a moment sooner. The chance of a repeat clot isn't something I want to risk. I need to keep you monitored for at least another twenty-four hours while we lower the levels of anticoagulants."

"I'll come by sickbay as often as you want me to. I won't complain about the hypospray. Please, just -"

Leonard pulls his hand away from Jim and sits taller. "Jim, stop running your mouth and listen." He keeps his voice hard, trying to let the anger cover his worry, and hide how much Jim's pained desperation wrenches his own gut. "Regular anticoagulants could make the embryo and uterine sac unstable. The safest ones are short-acting compounds that need steady delivery, direct to your bloodstream, and even then, it's risky. Even without your _unique_ situation, I wouldn't let _anyone _out of sickbay within twenty-four hours of an arterial embolus!"

Jim cringes. "Yeah, but -"

Leonard talks right over him. "Jim, you're in a volatile, dangerous, uncharted, medical no-man's-land. Your body isn't made for this, and I'm working my damned ass off, trying to get you through this alive. All I asked you to do was to follow a few simple, _temporary _restrictions!" He clenches his hands into fists in his lap. "And what did you do? You ignored them, because you obviously think that you know better! You couldn't handle those restrictions for just a few weeks."

"Bones, I..." Jim looks like he's going a bit pale again, but Leonard can't back down now.

"Are you _trying _to make this harder, Jim?" He doesn't even pause for an answer. It's rhetorical. "I was scared to death while you were on Antos, and if I were a praying man, I'd be on my knees thanking every God in the galaxy that we got you back alive. But then, you have to go and do something like this. What the hell am I supposed to think?"

Jim doesn't say a word, but the restless look on his face seems like a good enough summary of what he's thinking.

Leonard shakes his head to himself. "The restrictions are temporary, Jim. I only gave them to you because I'm worried about you _dying _on me. Do you get that?" He pinches the bridge of his nose briefly, trying to stifle the start of a headache. He's had too little sleep and too much stress lately. "Once this is over, you can go back to being your regular damned fool reckless self. At least when you come back in pieces from your usual shit, I know what the pieces are, and how to put them back together!"

"I know you were only looking out for me, Bones... I made a mistake." The almost-apology is shaky, and it only triggers another wave of anger from Leonard.

"A _mistake_? Jim, a mistake is putting your uniform shirt on inside out. You did this deliberately! You abused your captain's lockout code. In all the years I've known you, you might like to bend the rules, but you've never abused your rank. And why?" He lets out a cynical laugh. "Spock was right. The only reason you would've used that security level is because it's the only one that would keep _me_ out." The thought of Jim keeping him out, personally, has been one of the things digging the deepest. "Jim... we've had each other's dorm codes since our first year at the Academy. You've never locked me out of _anything_."

Jim swallows tightly. "It wasn't you I was locking out."

"Explain that to me, Jim, because I don't understand the logic."

Jim looks up at him, and there's a resentful gleam in his eye. "This might not make sense, but I wasn't locking _you_out, Bones. I was locking out Doctor McCoy. There's a difference."

Leonard feels like he's been kicked in the gut. From Jim's point of view, it makes sense. It makes too much sense. For weeks now, he hasn't really been there for Jim. He's worked Jim up one side and down the other in the professional, cold, intimidating setting of sickbay. Scanned him, tested him, altered his biochemistry, and _made him relive every trauma of Antos II, again and again._ He's put the kid through what must feel like a perpetual hell. Jim looks like he's lost his best friend, and maybe he has.

"Jim..." His mouth has gone dry, and he tries to swallow against the sudden sensation of sandpaper in his throat. "You don't have to explain. I get it."

Jim presses his lips together tightly and gives him a doleful look. "I shouldn't have done it. I know this."

"No, you shouldn't have," Leonard growls. An image flashes through his mind of Jim writhing in pain on the floor of the fitness studio. "But just because I know what twisted rationale sent you to that dang fool running contraption of yours doesn't mean I can let it slide. You risked your life, Jim. All for a workout!"

"It wasn't just the workout." He heaves a tight breath. "I hate all of this. What's happening to my body. Being weak. Every day that I'm still... _restricted_, it's another day that the Antosians still have me captive." His eyes sweep around sickbay, and he holds up the hand with the IV like a challenge. "I don't like... being controlled."

Leonard feels a hot flicker of guilt, but he quickly pushes it back down as he reminds himself of the many occasions since Antos when Jim has pushed him away, asked to be left alone, put him off, made excuses. The only situation he's left open to him is when he's being the CMO, and that's only because Jim has no choice. Leonard's being held at arm's length, and doing his damned best not to completely lose his grip. One slippery finger at a time, he feels like he's losing that battle.

Leonard looks at Jim determinedly. "I don't like coming so close to losing you, Jim. And like it or not, I'm your doctor, and if I need to tie you to the biobed to make sure you get the treatment you need, so help me, I will."

Something in Jim's expression freezes, then cracks. His head sags back against the pillow and he closes his eyes.

Part of Leonard wants nothing more than to comfort Jim. This is ripping him apart, too. But right now, he can't. He's still too raw, too angry, and what Bones wants is in direct conflict with what the physician in him knows is best.

He sighs. "Listen, I haven't slept in almost twenty-four hours. You're stable, and alpha shift will be starting soon. Doctor M'Benga's taking the shift. Chapel's already here. Get some more sleep, don't mess with the IV, and listen to my staff."

"Sure." Jim's voice is flat.

"If you need anything, have Chapel comm me."

"Okay."

"Jim?"

His eyes crack open, looking at Leonard warily. "What?"

Leonard wants to say how much he misses Jim. But this isn't the time. "Spock will be coming in to speak with you in a little while."

"Fuck," Jim mutters, his lips tightening. "Did you have to tell him?"

"Yeah, Jim. I did. He's your goddamned first officer! Hell, you guys are friends. You two talk it out." He shakes his head. God, he can't take this anymore. "I'll check on you after I've had some sleep."

Jim says nothing.

With a heavy sigh, he pushes himself out of his chair, pulls the privacy curtain around Jim's bed, and hurries out of sickbay with little more than a nod to Nurse Chapel. She's already been briefed, and she can take care of Jim just fine. Right now, Leonard needs a double shot of bourbon and his pillow.

* * *

><p>When Spock enters sickbay, it's all Jim can do to keep from shrinking back against the pillows. <em>Shit.<em> Spock's expression looks as calm and composed as it always does, but Jim knows that this conversation is not going to be pleasant. And he hates getting visitors in sickbay_. _It's downright embarrassing. He's reclining on a bed, out of uniform, his vitals are displayed above his head for anyone to read, and he's got an IV stuck in his hand. Talk about being at a disadvantage.

"Captain," Spock says without preamble, coming to stand at the foot of his bed, "you are looking considerably better than you did earlier this morning."

_Double shit._ That means Spock must have looked in on him while he was still unconscious, probably drooling on the pillow and snoring. "Bones says I'm fully recovered," he says. "He's just keeping me here for observation."

Spock raises an admonishing eyebrow. "That is not precise. I understood from the doctor that you are being kept to allow him to monitor your reaction to the anticoagulants, as well as to ensure that you comply with his instructions for bed rest."

Jim's obviously going to have to clarify some things with Bones about medical confidentiality. "Is _that_ what he told you? It's not really necessary. He tends to err on the side of-"

"He also," Spock breaks in, "fully appraised me of your medical condition."

Jim feels irrationally betrayed, although he can hear Bones' voice echoing in his mind. _I'll tell Spock,_ he'd said ten days ago, back when he'd told Jim to stay off the treadmill in the first place. "My medical condition," he repeats bitterly. "My _pregnancy_, you should say. Courtesy of the Antosian House of Horrors. Their fucking parting gift."

Spock comes around the biobed, seating himself gracefully on the chair at the side of the bed. It puts them both at more or less the same height, which is a relief, and also gives Jim a few seconds to rein in his temper. Spock isn't to blame here, and neither is Bones. If his secret's out and he's stuck back in sickbay, it's his own stupid fault.

"Captain." Spock's tone is low, almost intimate, pitched so that only the two of them can hear. "It has become increasingly apparent to me over the past three weeks that you are ill, despite your denials. As your first officer, working with you closely, you must have realized that I would notice this, long before you began wearing a med sensor."

Jim laughs to cover his embarrassment. "Actually, I thought I was hiding it pretty well. Except for that day I nearly threw up on the Bridge."

"I believe that I am not the only member of your senior staff who has noticed." Obviously, he means Uhura. Jim knows that she's been watching him pretty closely ever since he came back from Antos. He's not sure whether to feel grateful or resentful.

"Fine, you both have awesome powers of observation. So now you know." He sighs. "I was going to tell you eventually."

"Captain," Spock says stiffly, "I believe that you had a responsibility to inform me immediately of something that is quite obviously relevant to your ability to function. As your second-in-command, I believe this is critical information."

Jim nods, feeling the heat rising in his cheeks. "You're right. I should have told you there was something wrong."

"Indeed."

Jim shifts uncomfortably on the thin mattress, wishing he could stand up and pace the length of the room. "Look, I honestly thought that I'd be rid of the... problem... weeks ago. And I didn't really want anyone to know about it. It's my business, Spock, and it'll be gone in a few days anyway, so there was no reason for you to know."

"Jim..." Spock seems uncharacteristically hesitant. "This is not a _personal_ matter. You were captured as a member of a Starfleet survey mission. The embryo was bioengineered on Antos II from your genetic material, and the doctor's, taken without your knowledge or consent. The implantation was an additional assault committed during your captivity. These are crimes which must be reported to Starfleet."

"This isn't something I want Starfleet to know! I didn't - I _don't - _want this in the official logs. It's not the kind of information that needs to get out." He shakes his head emphatically. Nogura's always hated him and Archer's been holding a grudge since Jim released Scotty from exile on Delta Vega. They do _not_ need to know this.

"I grant you that it is a unique circumstance. But perhaps I misunderstand. You seem to imply that you will be ridiculed."

"A pregnant starship captain? C'mon, Spock, I'll never live it down and you know it! Can you imagine what'll happen if this ever leaks to the tabloids?" Potential headlines scroll through his thoughts. _Starfleet's Wonder Boy Becomes a Mother. Captain Kirk, Notorious Ladies' Man, Gets Knocked Up by Aliens. _Oh, God.

"Classified logs are not made public. It is unthinkable that the Admiralty, or Starfleet Intelligence-"

"Politics," Jim says flatly. "Do I have to spell it out for you? Not everyone wants me to succeed out here."

Spock pauses, as if considering his words. _Don't tell me I'm being illogical_, Jim pleads silently. _Don't fight me on this_.

"We will continue to discuss this when you are released from sickbay," he says finally. "Reporting the particulars of your situation to Starfleet is not urgent. But there is another aspect which is more troubling."

"The surgery, I know. Bones has a new technique he's working on. It'll be fine."

"That is not the issue." He steeples his fingers, a gesture Jim has seen him use when they're arguing procedure or discussing some ethical dilemma. "In deep space, we often have little choice but to make our own decisions. We cannot always communicate with Starfleet Command, and while we have our orders and general directives, Starfleet must trust us to use our best judgment. An integral part of my job as first officer is to provide you with alternatives, or with options that you may not have considered, as you do for me. In fact, Jim, the most successful command _teams,_" he says, stressing the word, "are made of officers whose points of view are often radically different."

"I know that," Jim says, trying not to show how uneasy this line of discussion is making him feel.

"But you have not asked for my input on this issue, nor, it seems, did you intend to do so. And while Doctor McCoy has made it clear that there are issues of medical confidentiality which imposed ethical constraints, he _also_ has chosen to follow your lead."

"I asked him not to say anything." It's not an excuse, though, and he knows it.

"We cannot be an effective command team if you do not trust me to keep your confidence. You also cannot lead if you are physically compromised and your judgment is impaired."

"There's nothing wrong with my judgment!"

"Then allow me to say, Captain, that while I do understand that you would be uneasy making your condition known to the general public, I think that your responsibility to Starfleet outweighs personal interest. This information would certainly be relevant to any future contact with the Antosians. To any future landing parties."

Don't let this happen to anyone else, Spock is implying. Forewarned is forearmed.

Jim sighs. "Point taken." His ego can stand to be bruised a little if it means saving somebody else from winding up like this.

"I would further remind you that in my capacity as science officer, I may be able to aid the doctor in his research. We collected a variety of tissue samples from the local wildlife. The biochemical labs have been analyzing them, with particular emphasis on the enzymatic and molecular structures."

Jim's breath catches slightly. He hadn't considered that Spock would actually be able to help. Now he feels even more foolish, but he nods. "Send what you have to Doctor McCoy. That's a good idea."

"Also, I believe I may be able to provide a better understanding of the Antosians' actions."

Jim sits up straighter. "You think you know why they would try to impregnate me?" It's been gnawing at him - the enigma, the unsolvable riddle. _Why_ would the Antosians do it? What could they possible hope to achieve?

"I have a theory."

"Fire away."

Spock tilts his head. "Based on the reports from the early survey missions, the Antosian species appears to be gender-neutral," he explains evenly. "The early survey missions found no gender variation, although there seemed to be several subspecies of natives. We postulated that they reproduce using a form of agamogenesis."

"Single-parent reproduction," Jim translates. "But they're not plants, Spock."

"Asexual reproduction is common, or even beneficial, in circumstances in which rapid population growth is necessary. Antos is a sparcely-populated planet with unstable weather conditions. It may be that they have evolved in this direction to ensure their own survival."

"So why try to make _me _pregnant?"

"I can only speculate," Spock admits. "Perhaps they were intrigued by the presence of two sets of gametes. The concept of a cell with a half-genome would be an anomaly and a curiosity to them, as would the presence of two sets of sperm cells with clearly different genetic material. This, coupled with their obvious interest in your sexual organs-"

"I get the idea, Spock." This is definitely _not_ a conversation he wants to be having with the other half of his command team. "So, you think they were, what, alien fertility specialists?"

"Or simply scientists, trying to understand how another species uses sexual reproduction. We have no way of knowing, short of returning for further observations, and that-"

"-Is not going to happen with _my_ ship. Not if I have anything to say about it." He shudders. No, they are _not_ going anywhere within ten parsecs of Antos.

"Rest assured, I was not going to suggest such a thing." Spock looks affronted at the idea. "Regardless of our scientific curiosity, it seems clear that this civilization is not ready for first contact. Starfleet may wish to continue observing this species, but I, for one, would certainly oppose using the _Enterprise_ for such a task."

Jim nods. "Because we're not an equipped for long-term survey missions. Waste of resources." Logical, of course.

"You misunderstand me," Spock says, looking almost angry. "I would oppose sending down another team because our commanding officer has been assaulted and grievously injured by the Antosians. The entire crew is aware of this. I have no desire to encounter them again."

Surprised, Jim gives Spock an appraising look. He notices, for the first time, the subtle signs of tension around his mouth and in the way Spock is sitting ramrod straight in the chair. Remembering what Spock just told him, he feels a stab of shame. Spock's been watching him for weeks, absorbing his denials, worrying. And Jim's pushed him away, just like he's pushed away Bones.

It occurs to him that Spock may not be as unapproachable as he thought. And Jim's an asshole.

"So," Jim says, after another awkward minute, "I guess Bones told you that he's getting ready to operate."

"I will be prepared to take command temporarily during your recovery. I understand that the procedure carries some risk."

"Bones says it's my choice."

"Indeed, it is, Jim."

"What would _you_ do, Spock?" he blurts. "I mean... is that what you think I should do? Remove it?"

It comes to him, with sudden insight, just why he's avoided telling Spock about the embryo. It's not that he doesn't trust him, and it's not even plain old embarrassment, although that's surely a part of it. It's the fact that Vulcans are an endangered species, and the few females left are all trying desperately to breed. Babies are suddenly the most precious, and rarest, Vulcan commodity. How could he tell Spock that he, of all people, was _pregnant_ and wanted an abortion?

Spock's answer seems to show that he knows exactly what Jim is thinking. "On Vulcan, offspring have always been treasured," he says. "Unlike humans, Vulcans are not a particularly fertile species. Most females have two or three children at most during the course of their lifespan, both by choice and by design. Multiple births are uncommon."

Jim nods. He's read the reports on the fledgling Vulcan colony and is familiar with the tragically low numbers of females of child-bearing age. "I'm sorry, Spock. I shouldn't have brought it up. I know that you want as many babies as possible."

"On the new Vulcan colony," Spock continues, ignoring him, "every child is wanted. But that is not the case _here,_and I fail to see how the Vulcan experience is relevant to what has happened to you, Jim. This child is neither the product of a consensual union, nor a natural process, and it presents a very clear danger to your health. It is unlikely that you could carry it to term, even if you wanted to. I see no ethical dilemma here, if that is what you are asking."

Jim's not sure what he's asking, but Spock's answer is strangely comforting anyway. "Thanks, Spock. I appreciate it."

Spock stands. "I will return to the Bridge, then. Doctor McCoy was quite clear on limiting the time of this discussion."

Jim scowls. "I'm supposed to rest, I guess."

"Quite. And I would recommend that you use your time here to review the regulations surrounding the acceptable uses of the level one security restriction."

"Listen, Spock, about that level one lock," Jim laughs uncomfortably, "it's not that I didn't know the acceptable uses, exactly, it's just that..."

The look Spock gives him is distinctly unamused, and Jim subsides. "Fine, I'll review the regs."

* * *

><p>Sitting alone on a biobed, Jim has discovered, is an obnoxiously perfect opportunity to think. He's thought about what Bones said to him, about how he made things worse through his own foolhardiness. He's mused over the fact that his overly-logical, regulations-addicted First Officer seems to be a lot more understanding than he'd expected. He thinks about the stars racing by outside the ship, wishing he was sitting on the bridge to watch them. He <em>feels <em>fine right now, so it's been impossible to ignore the almost physical urge to get out of sickbay. Of course, that only serves to remind him of what Bones said, bringing him back full circle to the fact that he fucked up.

He hasn't been completely alone. M'Benga has come in periodically to readjust meds and take blood samples for testing. Chapel has pulled him out of bed to walk around sickbay and do some gentle stretching. She's also brought him breakfast and lunch, but he hasn't had much of an appetite. He managed to persuade M'Benga to bring him a PADD, but the mission plans for the planetary survey of Telos III only make him more frustrated, and the reports from around the ship remind him that he's confined to sickbay. Eventually he puts the PADD aside.

He feels isolated. The knowledge that Spock is being supportive helps, but the raw sensation of abandonment has been gnawing at him all morning. Every time M'Benga or one of the nurses pushes aside the curtain around his bed, it only emphasizes the fact that Bones isn't there with him.

Seeing Bones walk out of sickbay without a glance back... that _hurt_. Maybe he deserved it, though. Sure, he's always prided himself on his ability to walk the line between following the rules and writing his own rulebook. He can usually think things through, weigh the risks, and make decisions that are _logical _enough to keep Spock satisfied, but creative enough to keep everyone on their toes. But this time, he didn't really consider all the consequences. He should have just listened to Bones.

He completely disregarded his CMO's orders and then abused his lockout codes so that he wouldn't have to face the doctor's objections. If any crewmember had behaved like that, he'd chuck him in the brig for insubordination without waiting to hear his explanation. No wonder Bones is furious.

A timer on the small table next to the biobed beeps, and Jim glares at it with mild annoyance. Time for stretching. After the third iteration of Chapel walking him through the same stretching routine, he told her that he's got it figured out and just wants to do it himself. She'd smiled at him in a not quite patronizing way, set a timer to let him know when to stretch again, and reminded him not to get his IV line tangled. She'd refused to disconnect it, despite his best attempts at diplomatic negotiations.

_I hope you're satisfied, Bones_, he thinks to himself. _You've got your whole staff trained to watch me like guard dogs._

With a sigh, he slides off the bed. He leans on it for balance as he slowly works through the routine. Calves. Quads. Bend down and stretch the hamstrings. He's straightening up to go into an abdominal stretch and sees Bones standing at the edge of the curtain on the far side of the biobed, looking at him with an odd expression on his face.

"Hey Bones. Uh... what gives?"

Bones' mouth quirks slightly. "I'm just happy to see ya taking care of yourself, Jim." He steps around the curtain and leans lightly against the biobed. "Have a good chat with Spock?"

"We talked. It's fine," Jim says shortly, as he clasps his hands over his head and leans back slightly, feeling the satisfying stretch in his abdomen. He doesn't want to get into it, and is grateful that Bones merely nods in acknowledgement, then gives him an appraising look with a slightly raised eyebrow.

"Been resting?"

"Not much else to do in here."

"Not harassing my staff, are you?"

He relaxes the stretch. "I assure you that your staff will give me a shining review, a gold star, and a cookie."

"I'm impressed."

"Don't be," Jim says ruefully. "It's just my ploy to get out of here faster." He grabs his left foot with his left hand, pulling his heel to his butt and stretching his quad again. "So, did you get any sleep?"

Bones shrugs. "Enough." He sighs and sits down on the chair next to the biobed, watching Jim's stretching technique like a hawk. "Believe it or not, Jim, I'm not keeping you here longer to punish you for misbehavior... even though you deserve it after your stunt last night. You're under observation while we adjust the anticoagulant levels, switch you over to something that doesn't need to be delivered constantly, and make sure you're not going to throw another clot. Nothing more sinister than that."

"I know." Jim tries to keep the resentment out of his voice.

"I also want to get some scans."

"Nurse Chapel has been taking scans all day - oh, you mean _that_." He drops his foot and switches to the other leg. "Sure. Not like I've got any say in the matter."

Bones heaves out an exasperated breath. His head falls back against the chair, and Jim suddenly realizes that Bones probably didn't get much sleep at all. "Jim," he says, exhaustion obvious in his voice, "unless your life is in immediate danger, you always have a say. You're in here right now without a choice because if you throw another clot, it could be deadly. But most things? Yeah, you get a choice. And I'm going to give you the facts so you can make the best-informed choice." His head comes back up, and he makes eye contact. "We can take these scans, giving me some up-to-date information to work my final surgical sims and prepare for the real thing, which would give you the best chance possible, or you can refuse. We can do the surgery as soon as I'm ready, or you can elect to hold off as long as you're stable... although for the life of me, I can't see a reason to wait. Your best chance for a good outcome is to let me get these scans, and take care of this for you as soon as possible."

Jim releases his right foot and heaves himself back onto the bed, feet dangling over the side. He looks over his shoulder at Bones. "Well, when you put it that way, it would make me sound like an idiot if didn't agree."

A tired smile ghosts across Bones' face. "Now you're gettin' the idea, kid. So... how about we do those scans now?"

Jim tilts his head. "Not like I've got anything better to do."

* * *

><p>It's not so bad this time. Just a scan. No injections or biopsy needles or anything else that makes Jim want to jump out of his skin while he's lying on the scanner... except for the simple matter of <em>what <em>Bones is scanning for and how it got there in the first place. Bones' face is impartial as he adjusts the scanner, taps buttons, and stares at the display screen which is infuriatingly out of Jim's visual field.

"Hey, uh... Bones?"

"Hold on a moment, Jim. I need to tighten the resolution on the placenta here." He doesn't look away from the screen. "I promise, just a couple more minutes."

Jim scowls. "That's not what I was going to say."

Bones finally looks away from the screen, sporting a slightly apologetic grimace. "Sorry, kid. What's wrong? Are you in any sort of pain?"

Jim shakes his head. "No, I was just wondering... could you turn the screen so I can see it?"

At this, Bones actually seems surprised. "Why?"

"I just... need to see it." He can't quite put into words why he suddenly wants to look at it again. He knows it's been changing and developing in the past weeks. Even as he's tried to ignore it as much as possible, and its very existence is an insult and assault to his body, he needs to know. Never mind that last time he saw it he puked. Now he wants to understand. _To seek out new life forms_, his brain supplies.

Leonard gives him a long look. "You know it's growing, Jim. I don't want you thinking about this the wrong way, or... getting confused."

"Don't patronize me," he snaps. "It's my choice to see it."

Bones reaches up reluctantly and turns the screen towards Jim.

Intellectually, Jim knows what to expect. After all, he did skim through the summarized information packet on fetal development that Bones had given him weeks ago, even though he really didn't want to. But there's something visceral about seeing the live image, obviously enlarged.

The beating heart. The flowing blood. The fact that - _shit_ - it does look vaguely, oddly human now, more than before. It's got little buds for arms and legs. It's a stark reminder, once again, that there's actually something _alive_ in him. It makes him queasy, and terrifies him just a bit, but as _wrong_ as it is, it's... human. Not fully formed yet, but well on its way. It could be their child, his and Bones'.

His breath catches as he stares, feeling a little bit dizzy, even though he's lying down. A second later, there's a firm, steadying hand on his shoulder.

"I told you... you don't need to see it."

"Yeah, I do," Jim replies, a little bit breathless. He turns to look up at Bones' face. "As I've been recently reminded, I'm a Starfleet captain. What does it say about me if I stick my head in the sand and refuse to see things for what they are?"

"Fair enough," Bones says impartially.

Jim nods and looks back over at the screen. "So... how's it looking?"

Bones hesitates only a moment. "The tissue from the artificial blood vessels hasn't grown any further into your aorta, so it looks like that won't get any worse. The vasculature of the uterine sac is developing a little bit oddly, and the connective tissue looks a bit strange, but it's stable... what?"

"That's not what I meant."

He hears Bones sigh. "The embryo is in perfect health. Developing normally. No genetic anomalies. The anticoagulants haven't harmed it."

"How big is it?"

"The embryo? About two centimeters. The sac is just over seven centimeters in diameter."

A strange thought enters Jim's mind. "Bones, theoretically... would it be possible to take the fetus and have it finish developing normally in a woman? In a surrogate?"

Bones makes a brief, strangled sound. "No, Jim. Just... _no_, for a dozen reasons. First, the fetal circulatory system is completely tied into the placenta, which is attached to the uterine sac, and... even with our technology, it's impossible transfer a pregnancy from one woman to another once the embryo implants. Second, the hormonal and immunological balance between mother and fetus has to develop in sequence, from the start of the pregnancy. Third... goddammit, Jim, are you still thinking that it's viable?"

"You said it was healthy," Jim replies, but he feels detached from his own voice. "I'm just trying to understand."

"Jim, for the love of God!" He reaches out and taps the scanner controls, and the viewscreen goes blank. "I've already gone over all the risks with you. You know that just because something is theoretically possible doesn't mean it isn't completely insane. So _please _just put that out of your mind."

The strange, heady feeling that Jim felt just a moment ago evaporates. "Forget it, Bones. Back to normal, soon. We'll put it all behind us." He stares at the blank screen of the scanner, picturing the odd-looking features of the tiny thing. And then he shudders and feels the hair on the back of his neck stand up.

The Antosians put it there. They put him through hell. Forced this on him. Almost killed him. And damn it all, he's a _man_.

And yet... it's alive. Human. _Theirs_.

Fuck, he's so confused.

"We done here?" Jim asks as evenly as possible, glancing up sideways at Bones.

"Yeah." Bones offers him a hand and pulls him upright. "Come on, you should go lie down while I review the scans."

Jim can only nod and allow himself to be led back to the biobed. Bones helps pull the blanket up for him, checks his vitals, and makes a quick adjustment on the meds. But as he turns to leave, Jim feels a sudden flash of deja vu. It's an echo from the wee hours of the morning when he'd woken up with Bones at his bedside... and then Bones had left without a glance back. Sure, the guy had been dead tired, but shit, he should have said something. "Bones?"

Bones stops short and twists his shoulders around to look back at Jim, but his feet are still pointed towards his office. "Yes, Jim?" The clinical detachment is still drawn like a curtain across his face, but Jim can see through it, and behind that curtain, Bones has been suffering silently. And mostly it's Jim's fault.

They've been there for each other since the start. The worst and the best times. A mismatched pair of misfits, and it worked when they were just friends - _it's never been 'just friends'_ - and it works now. Or it worked until Antos II. Something broke on that planet, and Jim isn't quite sure he can even find all the pieces, much less put them back together. But he's not going to make it if he keeps shutting Bones out. .

Finally, he takes a deep breath and says, "I miss you."

Leonard nods uneasily, but at least his feet turn towards Jim so that he's properly facing him. "You could've just told me that earlier, instead of going to all this trouble to spend a day in sickbay."

"I didn't do that part on purpose."

"I know."

"Maybe," Jim says slowly, "when you let me out of here... we could sit down and have dinner?"

Leonard's eyes to a bit wider, and for a moment, he looks absolutely vulnerable. "We could do that."

"But I have one condition."

"What's that?"

"I want to have dinner with you, not Doctor McCoy. I miss _us_, Bones." He swallows tightly and coughs to clear his throat. "I know you've got to be my doctor, but if you stop being my..." He hesitates, then presses forward. "My anchor... I'm not going to make it."

Bones stands there, frozen for a moment, then his shoulders droop. With a sigh, he takes a step closer. "You haven't exactly made it easy."

It would be easy to shrink back, but Jim can't let that happen. "I know. But it hasn't been easy to connect with anyone after Antos. Easier to avoid people when everything makes you feel exposed."

"I made you feel exposed," Bones says, a hint of regret in his tone, but not apology.

"Yeah. You always do. I used to like it."

Bones takes another step closer, close enough to brush the foot of the biobed with his hip. "Do you think you'll be able to like it again?"

The question wrenches something in Jim's chest, and all he can do is nod.

After a moment of hesitation, Bones finally steps up to Jim and slowly, tentatively, cups Jim's face in his hands. "We'll do dinner, Jim. I'll try to leave the doctor behind."

Jim nods again, cheeks flushing hot against Bones' hands, and he has to close his eyes as Bones leans in and brushes his lips against Jim's. It's not much of a kiss, and it's painfully reluctant, but it feels like the first crack in a solid tritanium wall that's been firmly in place for weeks. Finally, after a moment, Bones pulls away as Jim opens his eyes again. Bones' expression is unreadable, but he reaches down and gives Jim's knee a squeeze.

"Take a nap, kid. You're still recovering." He tilts his head towards the office. "I've got some work to do, but... if you get some sleep, and your blood test results look good, I'll let you out early in gamma shift, and we'll have a late dinner."

Jim offers a tentative smile. "I can work with that."

Bones returns the smile - small and unsure though it might be - and finally walks back to his office, drawing the privacy curtain around Jim's biobed as he leaves.

* * *

><p>"Come on, Bones. Seriously?" Jim glares at the small device that Bones is strapping around his upper arm. "Haven't you stuck me with enough stuff?"<p>

Bones gives him a familiar look of annoyance as he adjusts the strap on the device. The thing is less than half the size of a deck of cards, and has a very slim tube coming out of it. "Yes, seriously, Jim. Or we'll keep you in sickbay for another day. I'm already letting you out earlier than I'd planned. Hold still." With a quick movement, Bones jabs the tiny needle attached to the end of the tube into his arm.

"Ow."

Bones only rolls his eyes as he pulls the needle itself out, leaving the almost-invisible plastic catheter embedded in his arm. "Don't be such a baby. It's small, it's just subcutaneous, and in ten seconds, you'll forget it's there." He tosses the needle into the biohazard bin, then reaches for the tape, "Besides, the pump is so small that nobody will see it under your uniform, so there's no need to worry about your captainly pride." He applies a piece of tape over the spot where the tube is embedded, and another halfway between the tube and the pump, fixing it to his arm.

"I thought you said you'd switch me to something that _doesn't_need continuous delivery. Pills or something," Jim complains in annoyance. It's hard not to reach over and rub his arm. Instead, he grabs his black undershirt and pulls it quickly over his head.

Bones has the good grace to look slightly apologetic. "I wanted to, but your clotting factor profiles aren't looking as good as I'd like. These short-acting drugs are safer, more effective than the pills, or even the things I'd use a hypospray for. And this way, you won't need to wake up to take doses, or worry about forgetting. Besides, I want something with a short half-life so that when we're ready to operate, it will only take a couple of hours for the drugs to clear your system."

"Why do I need to stop them before... you know... surgery?"

"So you don't bleed out on the table, idiot." There's a hint of affection in the last word, and that's what finally lets Jim relax.

Jim nods. "Oh. Right."

Bones nods. "Besides, I think we'll be ready in just a few more days, so you won't be stuck with any of this for much longer."

"Yeah." Jim slides off the biobed, and flexes his arm. Bones is right - he can barely feel it. "So... can we leave sickbay stuff behind and go have dinner?"

"Sure, kid." Bones rests a warm hand on his shoulder, and Jim lets him steer them both towards the door. "Your place or mine?"

"Mine," Jim says. "I already contacted Yeoman Rand and had her send up dinner."

They walk together in silence to the turbolift, up two floors, and down the hall to Jim's quarters. It's companionable silence for the most part, but Jim still feels uncomfortable. After years of never having to think twice about what to say or do around Bones, he feels awkward this time. For weeks, Bones has watched him like a hawk, and he doesn't think they've had a single conversation that hasn't focused on his health in one way or another.

He's almost forgotten what their old conversations had been like before Antos II. Sure, Bones is always asking after his health, but it's almost like a joke between then, and then the conversation drifts to other things. Missions. Earth. Shore leave. The latest gossip from around the ship. Sex.

Jim feels his breath catch for a moment at the thought. They might have separate quarters, but ever since their... _relationship_ developed, they always seem to end up together, in one room or the other. Or they did until Antos. After having shared a bed for months, then stopping so suddenly, Jim doesn't know where this is going. He's _never _been gun-shy about sex. In fact, if he's preoccupied with something, sex is usually the best distraction. Now, with violation after violation, the thought makes him uncomfortable. Maybe not tonight, but eventually, he and Bones will want to have sex again... won't they? What is Bones expecting? Hell, Jim isn't even sure what he wants himself right now.

"Jim?"

Jim blinks and realizes he's standing outside the door to his own quarters. "Oh... right." He presses his thumb to his access panel and the door slides open. They're barely inside when he feels Bones' hand on his shoulder. He turns around reluctantly.

"Are you okay? You're not feeling sick or light-headed, are you?"

"I'm _fine_, Bones. Come on, you said you'd leave the doctor stuff behind."

Something in Bones' expression falls. "I know you're tired of all this focus on your health. But you should know that I can't stop being a doctor. That's my profession, but it's also who I am. I can't stop the way I think, any more than you can separate Jim-the-idiot from Captain Kirk."

"Hey, watch it," Jim says with an insulted air. "You know damned well that I've got to be responsible for this ship."

"And you know full well that I've got to be responsible for the health of every person onboard - especially you! I'm serious, Jim. That's who I am. Take it or leave it."

Mouth suddenly dry, Jim swallows thickly. "I need _you_, Bones."

"This _is _me," he says with a sigh. "But we don't have to talk about medical stuff tonight." He grins. "As long as you can manage not to cut yourself with the silverware."

Jim manages a wan smile. "I'll try my best. Let's eat, before dinner gets cold."

Bones pulls the cover off his plate and lets out a low whistle. "Real steaks from actual cows, Jim?" he asks, disbelief clear in his voice as he slides into the chair and grabs the knife and fork. "How long have you been hiding these in stasis? And do I even want to know how many credits you dropped?"

Jim can already feel his mouth watering at the aroma of real meat. It's the first time he's felt authentically hungry in weeks. "Since our last resupply at Starbase 72. And no, you probably don't want to know, but it was worth it."

Bones makes a show of looking around the room suspiciously. "I'm either expecting wine and violin music with a spread like this, or a prank."

"You wound me, Bones. Dig in. Yours should be cooked medium-well."

"I'm sure yours is still bleeding," Bones says, glancing at Jim's steak skeptically.

"Better be, unless the galley chief wants to hitchhike back to the Sol system." Jim actually feels better when Bones rolls his eyes. He waits and watches as Bones picks up his fork and knife, and slices into the steak with surgical precision.

Suddenly, the image calls to mind thoughts he'd really rather not have - Bones cutting... muscles and tissues separating under the onslaught of a laser scalpel... blood and... Jim looks away, and forces the image out of his head. He's here to have dinner with his best friend. His partner. And there's a damned fine steak sitting in front of him.

"Mmm, Jim, don't fire the galley chief. This would be a fair match for my mama's grilling, and that's saying something."

Jim looks up again, painting a grin on his face. "I won't tell your mama you said that." He tucks into his own steak, the speaks around the succulent mouthful. "So... resupply at Space Station 67 in a few weeks. Scotty has been wanting to do a realignment of the warp core, and if we give him time to do that, I think we can fit some shore leave into the stop."

Bones raises an eyebrow. "I've heard Station 67 has some nice recreational facilities." Then a smile Jim hasn't seen in weeks pulls at his lips, and Bones' cheeks flush a bit pink. "What were you thinking?"

Jim shrugs with telegraphed nonchalance. "Oh, well, there are some cliffs outside of the outpost settlement on the planet it orbits, and I was thinking about doing some freeform climbing..." He trails off with a grin at the appalled look on Bones' face.

"Jim, I swear, the only reason you keep me around is to see how many ways you can bring me to the brink of a myocardial infarction."

"A what?"

"Heart attack, you idiot," he says, using the same sarcastic affection he'd used earlier. Damn, Jim missed that tone.

"Hey, I've got to have some goals in life." Jim winks and stuffs another bite of steak in his mouth.

"Juvenile delinquent."

To Jim's immense relief, the dinner conversation drifts gently, almost like it had been before Antos. He can almost forget his situation, or at least, he can ignore it. Bones is chuckling at his bad humor, cracking jokes in turn and then growling at Jim for ignoring the mixed vegetables adorning the plate alongside the steaks. They discuss the quarterly crew assessments and promotions, and it almost feels like they're flirting again. If Jim lets himself think too much, it makes his chest ache with some thick, hot emotion that he doesn't dare to name, so he doesn't think. It's painfully familiar and it's everything that he's missed.

When he finally pushes his empty plate away - and yes, he ate the vegetables - he leans his elbows heavily on the table. There's been something itching at the back of his mind, something he wants to ask Bones about... but he's not sure how to bring it up. "So, while we're at Station 67, we'll have access to the comm hub. Good opportunity for personal subspace communications. And if I remember correctly, it's right around Joanna's seventh birthday."

An intense look of affection crosses Bones' face. Affection, and the ever-present wistfulness that rears its head when he thinks about his daughter. "Yeah," he says slowly, the Georgia drawl coming through. "Joce sent pictures in last week's comm packet. My little girl is practically a lady, ain't she?"

"Are you going to comm her in real time?"

His grin broadens. "Of course. And you'll be right there with me this time."

Jim blinks dumbly a few times. "Me? No, I don't think that would be... I mean, you shouldn't waste your comm time, it's short enough as it is. She wouldn't want to talk to me, anyway."

Bones snorts. "Are you kidding me, Jim? Do you know how many of her messages ask if you're gonna say hi?" He leans over the table conspiratorially. "She asked how you were doing in her last comm. Wanted to know if I'd kissed you."

"She asked what?" Jim blinks again, feeling more than a little bit stunned.

Bones gives him an affectionate look, distinctly different from the one he reserves for Joanna. "That was after we sent her the comm from outpost Epsilon Four."

Jim frowns, trying to figure out what he'd said or done differently. "Why?"

Bones chuckles softly and leans back in his chair, lacing his fingers behind his head. "Because, Jim, whether you realized it or not, you were clinging to me like a Denobulan leech that day, and Joanna may be young, but she's not blind. She could tell we were gettin' awful friendly."

Jim feels his jaw go a bit slack. "That was the day after we booked that room in outpost's retreat spa. We... uh... had a busy night."

Bones nods slowly, watching Jim through half-lidded eyes. "Oh yeah."

With the slightly feral look on Bones' face, Jim feels like his brain should be running on pure hormones right now, but instead, he's stuck on another track. "Well, wouldn't want to disappoint one of my biggest fans. I'd be happy to talk to her," he offers, although he's not all that sure what seven-year-olds like to talk about.

"She's a chatterbox," Bones says softly, getting a wistful look in his eyes. "Always going on about her friends and her cats and her latest art project."

Trying not to sound too heavy-handed, Jim asks casually, "You miss being there for her?"

Bones nods again. "You bet. She was just a baby when I left for the Academy, and I didn't really have a relationship with her. It's different now that she's older, especially after that summer I spent back in Atlanta second year. She's her own person now and she knows I'm her daddy. She understands that we can't spend much time together, but I still wish I could see her in person."

"You could have gotten yourself stationed on Earth, you know." They've discussed this before. "Hero of the Federation. Carte blanche to any assignment you wanted."

At that, Bones leans forward and shakes his head, then reaches across the table and with only a split second of hesitation, rests his hand lightly over Jim's. "I couldn't have settled for anything else, kid, and you know it."

Jim's attention is drawn to the hand lying over his, so familiar and warm. It's the first time Bones has touched him in this way since Antos. It's not unpleasant or intrusive, but it's unexpected, as if Jim has let his guard down for a moment and Bones has slipped through the crack in his defenses. For a minute he can't quite remember what he was so determined to talk about. Bones' thumb is rubbing the back of Jim's hand lightly, making small, soothing circles, as if he can sense the tension strumming through Jim.

With an effort, he brings himself back to the conversation. "But what about Joanna?"

Bones tilts his head to the side, giving Jim a searching look. "We all make our choices in life, Jim. Some men have families. Then there are people like us." His fingers squeeze Jim's hand slightly. "I'm good with this. More than good with it." There's an odd look in his eyes, almost desperate, needy.

Jim takes a deep breath, and then tentatively squeezes back. It's odd that such a simple, automatic gesture requires such an effort of conscious decision. "Even when I make it hard?"

"You're what I need, Jim. I love Joanna, but she's doing fine. I was the one who fell apart when I had to leave her. You kept me going." He lets out a dry laugh. "Would ya listen to me? Gettin' all sentimental. Look at what you do to me, kid."

"Myocardial infarction?"

Bones rolls his eyes, and Jim thinks it might be the best thing he's seen in weeks. "Brat."

"The finest."

Then Bones' expression sobers. "But I'm not kidding, Jim. Why do you think I get so... worked up when you're in danger?"

"Because nobody else would be that good in bed?"

Bones mouth quirks slightly, but the serious edge of his gaze doesn't soften. "Jim."

Jim sighs. "I know." He looks at their lightly clasped hands on the table. "Would you ever want to have a family again?"

It's impossible to miss the slight hitch in Bones' breathing. "Only if the stars bring us that way."

Jim's thoughts are spinning, but he puts a sly smile on his face to hide it. "You're right, Bones... you're getting too sentimental."

"Your fault." Then he leans back and glances over at the chronometer. "It's almost 0100 hours, Jim. I know you'll argue with me, but you really should get a full night's sleep. And I... do you want me to go?"

Something in Jim's chest catches. "I don't know. I miss you, Bones, but..." His voice trails off, and all he can do is look at the slightly pained expression on Bones' face, and wonder if his looks the same.

Finally, Bones nods. "One step at a time. Take all the time you need, kid. I'll be here." He stands, pushing his chair back with a faint scrape along the floor, and Jim quickly mirrors the motion.

"Can we do dinner tomorrow night?"

Bones smiles at him, stepping around the table. "If you promise to eat your vegetables."

"You sure know how to warm a man's heart." Jim takes a step closer.

"We southern boys know romance." He leans a bit closer.

"Really?" Jim can feel Bones' breath now.

"You betcha."

Jim isn't sure who moves first, but Bones hands are gripping his shoulder, and his fingers are twisting in Bones' hair as their mouths collide, and _fuck_, it's been much too long. There's a vague thought about heart rate and blood pressure and the damned med sensor on his wrist, but in truth, coherent thought has just disappeared and all that exists for the moment is Bones. His mouth is firm and demanding and Jim is more than willing to give in to any demand it wants to make. Pressed chest-to-chest, groin to groin, and it's all heat and pressure and roaming hands. There's no way to mistake the bulge pressing back against his own. By the time they pull back, they're both a little bit breathless. Bones' pupils are wide and dark, lips full and just a bit wet, and Jim imagines he looks about the same. "Bones..."

"I should get going, Jim."

"I know... I just..."

Bones' hand cups his cheek. "Until you're sure you're ready to share a bed again. When you can ask me to stay without hesitating. I miss you like crazy, Jim, but I don't want to rush you."

Jim's feet are frozen to the floor as Bones gives him a wistful smile, turns, and walks out of his quarters. This time, unlike the last time Bones walked away from him, he doesn't feel abandoned. He just feels lost.


	6. Chapter 6

**Part 6**

**Day 47**

Telos III is a shining orb filling the bottom half of the viewscreen, casting the bridge in a blue-green tint. Jim leans forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his knees as he takes in the sight of a new planet. He'll never get tired of this.

"Standard orbit has been achieved, Captain," comes Sulu's even baritone.

Jim smiles. "Thank you, Mr. Sulu. Chekov, preliminary scans of the proposed landing site, if you will."

"Aye, Keptin." The whiz kid's fingers fly over his control console as a stream of data rattles back at them. "Current conditions at the survey site are within acceptable meteorological standards for a landing party. Partial cloud cover, no precipitation, temperature 28 degrees Celsius, sir. All within expected parameters based on initial surveys."

"Sounds good," Jim says with a nod as he reaches to the comm panel on his chair. "Kirk to Scott."

"_Scott here, sir_."

"Are transporters ready for the beam down?"

"_Aye, sir. Coordinates locked in. We're ready to send the first landing party on your order. Teams One and Two are standing by._"

Jim opens his mouth to give the order, then hesitates. "Don't begin transport yet, Scotty. I'd like to see them off. I'll be down to Transporter Room One in a couple of minutes."

Scotty's "_Aye, sir,_" sounds a bit confused, but Jim's never stayed behind on a planetary survey before, so the chief engineer should expect a few changes in the protocol.

"Kirk out." He pulls himself out of the chair, trying to ignore how tired his legs feel. He can't remember the last time he felt really rested_._"Uhura, you have the bridge."

He barely hears Uhura's acknowledgement, and then he's in the turbolift on the way down to the transporter room.

* * *

><p>The corridors are busy with the usual foot traffic of the <em>Enterprise<em>. It seems hard to accept that everything's so damned _normal_ while his life has been turned upside down. No one seems to notice his turmoil, which isn't surprising, because he's always been good at hiding what's going on inside. Still, it makes him wonder for the first time what other dramas might be taking place under his nose that he's not aware of. He may be captain, but he's not privy to confidential information. Dehner, or even Bones, might know more about the private worlds of the crew. Maybe there are others - maybe even some of the calm and competent-looking men and women he passes - who are going through some private hell that he doesn't know anything about.

The transporter room door hisses open in front of him, and he's greeted by a perplexed-looking Vulcan.

"Captain, I was unaware that you had intended to... see us off."

Jim flashes him a casual smile. "Can't I stop by to look the landing party teams over before we send them down?"

"Of course, Captain." Spock's nod is calm, tolerant, and... yes, it's obvious that he knows Jim would give just about anything to trade places with a member of the landing party. "As I am leading Landing Party One, I can assure you that they have been thoroughly briefed on the conditions and mission objectives. Equipment has been checked and emergency protocols have been reviewed. We are ready for departure."

Jim feels his smile falter, but forces it back into place. Of course Spock would have taken care of everything. He feels so redundant right now, but he can't let that show. This is what a first officer is _for_, dammit. "As usual, Spock, your efficiency is stellar. I won't hold you up." He takes a step back and watches as Spock's team climbs onto the transporter platform. M'Benga is going with them, testing for toxins and pathogens on the surface. Bones insisted on staying aboard, giving the sideways excuse that M'Benga doesn't go on enough landing parties.

It seems so strange to stay behind to watch a landing party go down without him. Even though Jim knows all of his crew members need the experience, it just doesn't seem right that he and Bones aren't there. And still, at the same time, buried deeper than that... there's a small voice in the back of his mind, reminding him of what happened the last time he beamed down with a landing party.

Maybe staying behind today isn't the worst thing in the world. Just this once.

Spock takes his position at the front spot of the transporter pad, and gives a nod. He's looking at Jim, not Scotty, as he says, "Energize." There's a surprising empathy in his gaze. Not sympathy or pity, but understanding and even a certain calm approval.

Jim _almost _feels a sense of captainly pride as he watches them disappear. Almost, but not quite, because the pride is all mixed up with envy and anxiety and frustration.

Jim nods to Sulu, who's ready with the second team. "They're all yours, Lieutenant," he says with a forced grin.

One by one, Jim watches the five survey teams disappear from the transporter room. He makes eye contact with each time member and smiles encouragingly. He can see the excitement on the junior team members' faces - young science officers, crewmen, techs - who don't often get noticed personally by the Captain. He did the right thing coming down to see them off. That's got to be enough, for now.

He's still staring glumly at the empty transporter pad when Scotty steps up beside him.

"It's like throwin' young birds out of the nest, Captain."

Jim blinks and looks sideways at his Chief Engineer. "What?"

Scotty nods towards the transporter pad. "The young kids going on the survey mission, of course. Take Lieutenant Rodriguez. It's his first time leadin' a mission, right? Aye, he's got the makings of a fine leader. And it's a good thing, letting 'em stretch their legs on a landing party without yeh." He winks. "Mark of a fine leader yourself, Captain - showing your crew that yeh trust them to be able to act on their own."

Jim can't keep the smile from tugging at his mouth. Trust Scotty to be able to turn the source of his frustration into something he could be proud of. Sure, Scotty hasn't got a clue why he's staying aboard the ship, but he doesn't need to know. And really, this almost makes Jim feel better about it. He nods and claps Scotty on the shoulder. "It's part of my job, letting the junior crew get some leadership experience. But thanks."

"Yeh do a great job, Captain." He gives him a broad grin. "Sure you're not gonna take a jaunt down planetside this time 'round?"

Jim shakes his head, keeping his smile fixed in place. "Not this time. I told Spock that I'd run logistics and data collection from Ops. I haven't done enough landing party oversight from onboard anyway. Good deal all 'round, right?"

"Sounds like fun, sir."

With a wave, and one last look back at the transporter pad, Jim heads back towards the bridge.

He's done a good job of keeping his shit together since Bones let him back on duty. Playing it calm. If anyone asks why he's been off-duty, the explanation of a "stomach bug" has satisfied curious parties. Everyone on the _Enterprise_knows he went through hell on Antos, so it's easy to explain things away. Nobody pries. And Jim behaves himself.

Scotty's right - the members of the landing party will be fine on their own. It's good to change the routine and let his people get some new experiences.

But God knows, it should be his _choice._

* * *

><p>The microcellular scalpel is steady in Leonard's hands, and through the scope, he can see the odd connective tissue and proteins slowly separating from the natural structures of the major artery. Vascular stabilizers are holding. Blood flow is good. The abdominal aorta is stable.<p>

Fiber by fiber, the artificial blood vessels release their hold. Microfissures are quickly fused, and only the tiniest droplets of blood manage to ooze out from the holes in the aorta before he can seal them. And they stay sealed. Good God, they're all sealing perfectly.

Leonard holds his breath as he fuses each minuscule incision, wondering when a tiny missed piece of artificial tissue will lead to a catastrophic rupture, but it never comes. Piece by piece, the tight web of protein and almost-human cells relinquishes its hold on the healthy, natural blood vessel. Finally, the last capillary is removed, the last fissure in the aorta is sealed, and the uterine sac is fully separated from the surrounding organs and blood vessels. He pulls the sac out through the incision, and closes.

It's textbook perfect. It's a clean surgery. It's the fourth time in a row that the entire procedure has gone without even a hint of a glitch.

Leonard releases the simulator controls and leans back. He's got to run a few more of these sims with added variables - changes in blood pressure, unexpected clotting, reactions to the anesthetic - but it looks good. Really good. And Jim can't wait much longer.

He glances over at the chronometer on the wall of the lab. Alpha shift is over, but Jim's probably still on the bridge. If he remembers the details of the briefing, the last of landing parties will be on the surface for about another hour, until the planet's rotation brings that survey site into nightfall. The first two teams, including Spock's, should already be back. Therefore, Spock can take the bridge, and the captain can get his ass to sickbay for a quick check.

Leonard taps the comm. "McCoy to Kirk."

There's a moment before the comm channel opens on the other end. "_Kirk here. What can I do for you, Bones?_" As if he doesn't know.

"Would you come down to sickbay when you get a chance?" His way of telling Jim that it's not an emergency, but he'd better not avoid his appointment. The med pump he's on will be close to empty by now. Sure, he could go for a while without it if he runs out, but... Leonard just doesn't want to take any chances. It's risky enough that he'll have to remove it hours ahead of the surgery.

"_How urgent is it? Two of the teams are still on the surface. I was going to stay up here in contact until the end of the mission._" Translation: _Please let me play a little bit longer._

Leonard rolls his eyes. "You have a communications officer, you know, and she's damned good at her job."

He can hear the sigh over the comm. _"I'll be down in ten minutes. Kirk out._"

Leonard spends the next twelve minutes compiling data from the previous surgical simulations and setting the parameters for the next run. He's studying graphs of cellular cohesion when Jim finally strolls in, standing at the door of the lab. He puts the PADD down and turns his chair towards the door, giving Jim a visual once-over. "How're you feeling?"

"Great," Jim says with practiced ease. "The mission is going smoothly, the results from the surveys are looking good -"

"Jim."

Jim sighs and leans against the door frame, arms folded over his chest. "Not bad, Bones. Really. I'm a little tired, and my stomach hasn't felt right in weeks, but seriously, nothing has happened today. I mean, doesn't your little tracking collar tell you everything?" He indicates the sensor on his wrist with a tilt of his head.

Leonard stands, quickly straightening his sim tools as he speaks. "It's not a tracking collar, Jim, and no, it doesn't tell me everything. It just gives me the basics - heart rate, oxygen saturation, blood pressure. Just the most essential stats that would let me know if something is going seriously wrong. It doesn't tell me how you're feeling." He picks up his PADD again and walks to the door, giving Jim a pointed look. "That's why I asked."

"Oh." Jim looks just mildly chastised.

"Come on, kid. This will only take a minute." He leads Jim to the biobed and pulls the curtain, observing Jim as he pulls himself up onto the bed. He looks tired, but his motions are normal, with no evidence of hidden pain or discomfort. Leonard checks the readout. Everything looks pretty good, even though he can tell that Jim ought to be eating just a bit more. Nodding with satisfaction, Leonard grabs a blood collection unit. "Shirt off."

"Strip show? No problem." Jim offers a lopsided grin, but doesn't hesitate to tug his shirt over his head.

_Flirting again. Trying to get back to normal, then._ "Ridiculous," Leonard grumbles as he pulls Jim's arm towards himself, then positions the collection unit at the inside of Jim's elbow. "Just need a quick sample. Hold still."

"You and your sharp, pointy - _ow_." Jim hisses in irritation until Leonard withdraws the unit. It's a handy device that sterilizes the skin, collects the blood, and seals the puncture in one step. Gives the patient less time to whine about it. "You don't give a guy much warning."

"It's just a blood draw, Jim," he says as he pulls the vial out of the device and snaps it into the analyzer unit. He quickly calls up the parameters for clotting factors, then frowns at the results. Obviously, the markers for clots are still positive, as those would be floating around in Jim's blood for a few days following a clot, but the ratios of the proteins in the clotting cascade are slightly off, and the platelet count is lower than he'd thought it would be by now. Still, it's within the acceptable range, and there's no particular red flag that any more clots are forming. Jim's body might just be a bit sluggish from the stress of supporting the embryo.

"If you keep scowling at it, you might hurt its feelings."

"Huh?" Leonard looks up to see Jim's teasing grin, which doesn't quite hide the worry in his eyes. "Sorry, I'm just trying to make sense of this."

"That sure sounds encouraging," Jim says flatly.

"Clotting factors are a complex science, Jim," Leonard explains as he goes over to the cabinet. "Things don't go right back to normal after a clot, especially a massive one like you had. Even if you feel fine, your body is still recovering." He grabs another vial of the anticoagulant and returns to the biobed. "Your clotting proteins are still a bit unbalanced, and that's risky."

"Risky. What a surprise." Jim doesn't bother to hide his annoyance as Leonard reaches for the anticoagulant pump. "So we're switching me off of this thing now?"

"Sorry, kid, but no." He hits a button on the pump, which ejects the nearly empty vial, and neatly snaps in the new vial. "This drug is the best option we've got for anticoagulation, and I'm not taking chances."

"Sure."

Leonard ducks his head down, putting his face directly in Jim's line of sight. "I'm not taking chances, Jim, when we're so damned close to fixing this."

"Oh?" His expression turns hopeful again.

Leonard nods, holding back the swell of emotions that Jim's animated expression can pull from him. "I've been testing the microsurgical technique. It's looking good." He gives an encouraging smile. "Really good."

"That's... that's great, Bones." He smiles, but something looks off. "How much longer?"

"Not long. I want to run a few more simulations over some different variables, but... I think we've got it." He grabs Jim's shirt and drops it on his lap. "Put your shirt back on. That's all we needed to do here."

"Right," Jim says, suddenly sounding tired again. He pulls his shirt back on, but to Leonard's surprise, he doesn't immediately jump off the biobed and bolt for the door. "How did M'Benga respond to you sending him down on the landing party instead?"

Surprised by the sudden change of conversation, Leonard shrugs. "He's not as interested in field experience as some folks, but he was happy to go. He likes research and clinical practice more than exploration."

"You do, too," Jim says with a hint of a smile.

"I like making sure you stay out of trouble and in one piece," he grumbles. Then sighs. "But I've gotta admit, I've acquired an appreciation for _some _aspects of space exploration." He gives Jim a searching look. "So... speaking of space exploration, how was your day today?"

Jim frowns slightly in confusion. "I already told you, I'm fine."

"I mean, how did you do up there, on the bridge instead of going down planetside?" Leonard watches as Jim's shoulders slump a bit, and he sighs. "I might have stuck you with a duty restriction, but I don't want you to be miserable, Jim."

"I know," Jim says quietly. "I'm not. Miserable, that is. Just... you know." Then he looks up with a surprisingly shy smile. "I could tell you over dinner. Alpha shift is over, and you can't tell me that you've stopped to eat yet."

Leonard can't stop himself from smiling in return. "We could do that. But I'm actually not quite done here." He glances up at the chrono. "How about this: you go back to the bridge. I know you want to see the last landing parties return to the ship so you can debrief everyone."

Jim's smile broadens. "Really, Bones? You're encouraging me to take a longer duty day?"

"_Only _if you're not overtired. And not overtaxing yourself." He reaches out and squeezes Jim's knee with his hand. "I want you to be okay. And if that means giving you enough freedom to be the captain in whatever capacity you can handle safely, then that's what I want too."

For a fraction of a second, Leonard swears he sees something flicker in Jim's eye, then Jim blinks and reaches down to squeeze Leonard's hand. "Thanks for that, Bones. And... I may not say it very often, but it's good to know you're looking out for me."

"I don't mind doing it, either, when you're not acting like a reckless fool."

Jim laughs, and in a smooth motion, slides down from the biobed. "I'll head back up to the bridge. When all the landing parties are back aboard and debriefed, I'll comm you. Dinner?"

"Dinner," Leonard says with a nod.

"Sounds good," Jim says. He gathers himself up, and in a clipped motion, he strides out of sickbay.

Leonard stares at the doors long after they've slid shut behind him. Jim is... a powerful man. Still young, and still learning, but charismatic and forceful in a way that most people can't even aspire to. It's not an act, just a vital part of who he is. Leonard recognizes and appreciates that part of him... but he's also seen Jim vulnerable. Fragile. Broken. And this situation is the most delicate, precarious spot Jim has ever been in. The kid is coping well, all things considered. But that doesn't mean he's okay.

He's grateful that Jim is finally reaching out for him again, as a friend and as a trusted partner. Maybe eventually as a lover again, but sex seems far less important right now than simply having _Jim _back.

Jim had asked him about Joanna when they'd had dinner the previous night. One thing that keeps coming to mind is that even though Joanna is his baby girl, Jim is his family now, and has been since the day they met on that damned shuttlecraft, even though neither of them knew it at the time. He'd hinted at it, but it feels as though there's no possible way for him to express just how deeply he means it. They've been through some damned tight scrapes, but they've come through them all together. Always together. The thing he can't quite bring himself to say, but he suspects that Jim knows anyway, is that without Jim, Leonard would truly have nothing left.

He can't imagine life out here without Jim. During those horrible days when Jim was captive, when there was no sign of life from him, Leonard had been just barely functional, lost in a sort of twilight haze of desperation and grief. After they'd gotten him back, he'd realized that he couldn't deny what he felt anymore. And he's willing to be patient, now, while Jim finds his way back to himself, because as far as he's concerned, there's no other alternative.

But this whole mess seems to have Jim stuck on the question of them as a family - as if there's any question about that anyway. As far as Leonard's concerned, they're enough of a family, the two of them. Obviously, this embryo isn't meant to be a baby, and that's all there is to that, but suddenly he's picturing Jim as a father, and it's not so hard to imagine.

He can see it in his mind's eye. It's a typically sunny summer's day in Georgia. Thickly humid, with the teasing threat of a mid-afternoon thunder shower. Grassy lawn, wooden fence. Jim is running around like an idiot, tumbling on the grass as Joanna tackles him. Or they're playing catch, because Jim would be the one to teach Joanna to play baseball, while Leonard would insist on making them both wear helmets with face guards. Or they're goofing off in the swimming pool, all three of them, escaping the afternoon heat, and it's a fantasy that's so unreal yet so tangible that Leonard doesn't even know how to react to it.

But then it's not Joanna. It's a kid - boy or girl, doesn't matter - who looks a bit like Jim and a bit like Leonard. Dark brown hair and incredible blue eyes. And it's impossible and wrong and biologically unfathomable, but _dammit_, the image is burned onto his thoughts now and he can't unsee it.

Sure, the idea has crossed his mind. How could it not? He's spent the past month being reminded, over and over again, that his best friend and partner is essentially carrying _their _baby. Yeah, he's a father, but it's been too long since he'd been able to be a Dad. And Jim... he'd make a great father if he ever let himself, career be damned. No man who cares that much and feels that passionately could be anything less than an incredible dad.

But the simple truth is that Jim's life is in danger and nothing else matters.

With a heavy sigh, Leonard goes back to his office to analyze his latest data and design the parameters for tomorrow's simulations. It won't take long. He's got to be ready for their dinner date.

* * *

><p><strong>Day 49<strong>

When Jim arrives in Bones' office just after his shift, the doctor is all smiles for once. "Got some good news, kid." He points to Jim's upper arm, where the pump is hidden under the sleeve of Jim's shirt. "Time to take this out."

Jim wastes no time in pulling his uniform top off and holding out his arm. The pump may be small and discreet, but it's irritating. Every time he moves his arm, he can feel that it's _there_, weighing on him, a constant reminder that he's dependent on medication. "So, now we go to pills?" he asks, as Bones efficiently removes the device. He hates taking pills, but at least that would be better than hyposprays three times a day.

"No, Jim, now we _operate_." Bones looks pleased with himself, although there's an undercurrent of tension in his tone. "I'm taking you off the anticoagulants now, and we'll do the surgery tomorrow morning first thing."

"Tomorrow?" After weeks of waiting in anxious expectation, the idea that Bones is actually going to _cut into him_ in just a few hours comes as a shock. The room suddenly feels too warm. "So soon? Uh, are you sure?"

Bones raises an eyebrow. "I wouldn't say that I was ready to operate if I still had doubts, Jim. I've done over a dozen sims using the new cellular level technique, and the results are good." Whatever he says next - technical-sounding explanations about protein structure and integrity of native tissue - doesn't really register. Jim's sure that what Bones is saying is important. He seems calm and confident as he explains the technical details, but Jim's feels like he's a few steps behind.

He's known for weeks, of course, that this was coming. He can even remember, back at the beginning, yelling at Bones that he had to cut the embryo out _now, _right away, precautions be damned. But that was almost a month ago, back when he thought of it as an alien monster. Since then, the hell of it is, he's almost gotten used to the idea that he's carrying a human embryo.

Sure, the idea still freaks him out. The medical treatments - the med sensor, the anticoagulants, the hormones - are making him feel _not himself_ all day long. And as much as he tries to avoid thinking about it, he knows that this embryo is the product of the horrors of Antos. But still, for all of Bones' insistence that it isn't really _viable_, some part of Jim's psyche has latched on to the idea of this as a real baby. It's not a tumor or a faulty appendix that needs to come out, it's a unique life form. It's a potential child, _his_ child.

To say nothing of the fact that Bones has been delaying the operation for weeks because it's so fucking dangerous. He could bleed out. Be paralyzed. Lose part of his bowel or his pancreas. This is serious.

Jim can feel himself starting to sweat. He has to make an effort to focus on Bones' words.

"... to make arrangements with Spock. We'll be leaving the Telos system tomorrow, and we'll be in transit for the next five days, so you won't be missing too much anyway."

"Yeah, that's fine. I'll do that," Jim says, his voice sounding odd to his own ears.

"Good. And I'm sorry about this part, Jim, but you'll need to stop eating for the night. You can have beverages - not alcohol - until 2200 hours, but after that, nothing else until after surgery."

"Okay. Anything else I need to do?"

Bones shakes his head. "Then you just sit back and I'll take care of the rest."

That phrase sends an uncomfortable shiver down Jim's spine, but Bones doesn't seem to notice.

"If all goes well, recovery should be fairly rapid," Bones is saying. "You'll have to stay overnight because it's major abdominal surgery, but depending on how well the incisions heal, and taking into account your pain levels and general vital signs, I should be able to release you to quarters within twenty-four to forty-eight hours."

"And then what?"

Bones looks puzzled at the question. "And then you get your life back, Jim. We operate tomorrow, and then things go back to normal."

What Bones doesn't say, but Jim can hear anyway, is _and I hope to God I'm right._

It doesn't exactly instill him with confidence.

* * *

><p>He bumps into Liz Dehner as he's walking out of Bones' office. "Captain," she says politely. "It's good to see you."<p>

_Shit._ She's the last person he wants to see right now. He hasn't been back to see her since their last session, which threw him into the tailspin that ended in the treadmill disaster. All he wants right now is to find a place where he can be alone for a minute, get his breathing back under control, wipe the sweat off his forehead, and get his mind back in gear. And Dehner has her uncanny way of reading him. It's too much, right now.

"Doctor," he acknowledges, trying to move past her without appearing rude.

But Dehner doesn't seem to take the hint, or maybe she's decided that Jim needs a more assertive approach. "I've been hoping to run into you, Captain. I'd like to set up another appointment."

"I'm in a hurry, actually."

"It will only take a moment." She gives him one of her earnest, probing looks. "You seem a little unsettled."

Jim sighs. They're in the main sickbay, which is no place for a confidential conversation. True, the bay is deserted except for Chapel, who's seated at the main desk, too far away to really hear them. And as much as he'd like to avoid another gut-wrenching counseling session, the fact is that he _does_ need someone to talk to. Bones is so caught up in the details of the surgery, and so relieved at having found a way to operate, that he barely noticed Jim's reaction. But Jim's feeling light-headed and shaky, and just a little distant from everything.

_Unsettled_ is a good word. It sounds a lot better than _terrified_ and _rushed_ and _torn._

"Can I ask you a question?"

"Of course." She leans back against one of the biobeds and looks up at him, waiting.

"I'm having a... surgical procedure done tomorrow."

"Something minor, Captain?"

"Not really." He takes a deep breath. "Pretty major, actually. And I think I told you, I'm a terrible patient. Especially since coming back from... after what happened on Antos."

She nods. "I imagine you're having some concerns about the surgery. That's quite normal considering what you've been through. Surgery means relinquishing control for a period of time, and that can be... difficult."

He gives her a shaky smile. _Difficult_. That was putting it mildly. "Actually, I was hoping you'd have some advice for me. How to... you know, prepare. Mentally."

For a long moment she seems to study him. "There are certain behavioral and meditative techniques that I could teach you, Captain, even on short notice. But you're actually not a very good candidate for them and I doubt they'd be effective." At his questioning glance, she explains, "We'd need more time, and you'd have to be willing to really deal with some of these fears. You're too skeptical and your usual coping strategies are pretty solidly entrenched. That's not necessarily a bad thing, either, because you've shown that you can handle quite a lot of stress."

He's not sure whether to be insulted or flattered. He settles for disgruntled. "That's not very helpful, Doctor."

She gives him a wry smile. "Maybe not, but I'm a scientist. It's a realistic assessment based on the variables at hand. But I'm not saying that there's nothing you can do. In fact, in this case, I think you probably know _exactly_what to do."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Surgery's a leap into the unknown. I'm sure you're familiar with that feeling."

He stares at her, wondering if she knows - if she can possibly have guessed - what that phrase means to him.

_he tosses himself out of the car, feeling the wind whip around his ears, scrambling wildly for a handhold in the dirt_

"You're no stranger to overcoming fear," she says gently. "Use that. Trust your instincts a little, Captain."

He wants to reply, but he's got nothing to actually say, so he nods in dismissal before walking slowly out of sickbay.

God, he hasn't thought about that day in a long time. He was eleven, Sam was leaving, and Jim took the Corvette for a spin. And he made a decision that changed the course of his life.

A leap into the unknown.

* * *

><p>He wanders the ship, lost in thought. His feet seem to be moving on their own accord. It's not unusual for the crew to see him making the rounds, and from their cheery smiles and salutes, he must be putting up a pretty convincing front of business-as-usual. It's almost a surprise when he finds himself on the bridge, looking at Spock calming sitting in the captain's chair.<p>

"Captain on the bridge," says Perez from Communications. No one looks startled - this is the beta crew, a seasoned and professional group of officers, and it's by no means unheard of for the captain to show up unexpectedly during their shift - but the normal shift chatter is fading into quiet murmurs, and Jim can see postures straightening all over the bridge. It's a mark of respect that never fails to gratify him.

"At ease," he says smoothly.

Spines and shoulders relax only marginally. Spock, of course, looks neither surprised nor displeased, and since he was sitting straight in the chair in the first place, his posture doesn't change perceptively. Unlike Jim, Spock is capable of sitting still for hours at a time. "Mr. Spock, a moment of your time, please."

"Of course, Captain. Lieutenant Pierce, you have the con."

Jim leads the way to the ready room, taking a seat at his desk and gesturing for Spock to sit as well. "I take it the atmospheric scans from Telos are almost complete."

"Indeed, Captain. We will maintain orbit for another twenty-six hours while we finish the geological and tectonic scans of the planet."

"Sounds good," Jim says with a casual nod. "How's the data from the landing party surveys looking?"

"Quite satisfactory, Captain. Rich plant life, excellent soil quality, low natural radiation levels, and abundant water. There are no significant pathogenic organisms, and only biologically insignificant levels of organic toxins. The planet, despite the relatively low atmospheric oxygen for a Class-M environment, has ideal conditions for settlement by most species within the Federation." He tilts his head, and it's just a bit too _knowing_. "As you were no doubt aware when you left the bridge at the end of alpha shift."

Jim sighs. Spock doesn't seem to have much conception of innocuous small talk as a prelude to awkward conversations. "Uh, right. Yes, I know that." He shifts uncomfortably in the chair. "That's actually not what I came to talk to you about."

Spock lifts a questioning eyebrow. It's infinitely patient and exasperatingly demanding at once.

Jim stifles the urge to roll his eyes, although he knows that Spock is only trying, in his own way, to help him. He takes a deep breath. "McCoy says he's ready to operate. He's going to remove the embryo tomorrow morning."

Spock nods calmly, although his eyes seem to bore into Jim's. "I will make the necessary arrangements to cover your shifts."

"I'll be off duty for a day or two," he says, deliberately shortening the recuperation time that Bones gave him.

"I would expect, from the information that Dr. McCoy has shared with me about the procedure, that your recovery will not be quite as swift as that."

Jim gives him a lopsided grin. "Well, you know our chief medical officer. He tends to exaggerate. And I'm not as fragile as he seems to think I am."

"I am sure that you will do your best to convince him of that, Jim. Although from what I have observed, on matters of the crew's health, especially yours, Doctor McCoy tends to ignore anyone else's opinion but his own."

"Yeah," Jim agrees glumly. "He won't listen to me at all."

"That must be quite an unusual experience for you," Spock replies, deadpan. "And yet, perhaps an admirable quality in the ship's CMO, who has to regularly contend with non-compliant patients."

Jim scowls. "I'm not _non-compliant_. I'd be a lot more cooperative if he let me rest in my quarters. I just can't stand hospitals. Or doctors."

"May I ask why?"

_Because I hate being weak, _he almost says._ Because I hate being out of control. _

The truth is more complicated than that. He's always hated pity and all the attention that comes with it. As a kid, he had enough unpleasant interactions with doctors to know that to most of them, he wasn't Jim Kirk. He was nothing more than his symptoms - anaphylactic shock, a broken wrist, or whatever. Even as an adult, it's always been the same. Doctors don't talk _to_ him; they talk _about _him. As long as he's ill or injured, he's defined by the injury, as if the simple act of becoming a patient turns him into something else, something weaker. He doesn't have enough information or knowledge to make the choices for himself, and he can't control what happens. It's why he learned to hide injuries and illness.

He's blindsided, suddenly, by a vision of himself as Bones and the paramedics must have seen him on Antos, confused and bleeding and scared. Pleading with them desperately to _leave him alone_. God, they must have thought he was so pitiful. And then waking up, eyes bandaged, his leg and arm strapped down, connected to tubes running unknown medications into his bloodstream. Helpless and unguarded, exposed in a way that he can't stand. Bones thought he was just being unreasonable, asking to take off the eye bandages and leave. But it was more than that.

It was bad enough not being able to _see_, but eye contact is a basic part of human communication. Without it, he couldn't be sure he was really being understood, and he was cut off from a hundred cues that he's learned how to read in Bones' body language. Bones could scrutinize him as closely as he wanted - every twitch and frown, every anxious tick - and if that wasn't enough, he could always look up at the monitor for a biophysical indicator of Jim's stress and pain levels. It was unequal... and unsettling.

Bones is the first doctor he's ever known who never stops seeing his patients as people. You can't always tell from his words - scolding and berating patients for being irresponsible, clumsy, or downright stupid seems to be his bedside manner of choice - but he takes the time to explain what he's doing, and his touch is gentle even when his words aren't. But even though he trusts Bones as much as he can trust any doctor, it's not enough. He still avoids sickbay and downplays his symptoms, because being a patient means giving up his autonomy.

On the _Enterprise_, he's the captain. In sickbay, he's a patient. There's a fundamental difference that seems to happen when a person walks through the door of a clinic. It's an instant transition_._Whether he's paralyzed by malicious alien scientists and treated like a damned lab rat, or he's sedated on Bones' operating table, one core element remains the same: he's a mere object with no free will.

He looks away, pushing the memories back down into the depths of his psyche.

"I don't like feeling so vulnerable, I guess," he says finally. "When I was a kid, I avoided letting anybody know when there was something wrong. My stupid way of protecting myself. And I've never liked letting other people make decisions about what I need. Then after Antos..." He sighs, and meets Spock's gaze. "It just got worse."

"Doctor McCoy is extremely competent-"

"I know that, Spock. It's not logical. I know Bones is a great doctor. I trust him. But I have to tell you that the thought of him cutting into me..." He shudders.

_there's a_ _horrible, searing burn and he can't even scream_

"Well, I'd rather be anywhere than on that table tomorrow." He gives a self-deprecating laugh. "So says the intrepid Captain Kirk. Pathetic, huh."

"Jim, facing one's fears, especially when they are a product of such traumatic experiences, is hardly pathetic. I would say that quite the opposite is true. I have nothing but admiration for your strength of character."

Jim feels his face redden with the unexpected praise, but shakes his head. "It doesn't feel like strength of character, frankly. I feel like a coward. I know it's what I've been asking for all these weeks, but now that it's time to actually go through with it, all I can think is that maybe we can just put it off a little bit more."

"But you_ will _do it," Spock says. "That is the definition of courage, Jim. It's not a lack of fear, but facing your fears and overcoming them."

"Tell me about it," Jim says dryly. Then he sighs. "I'll let you get back to your station. Let me know if anything interesting happens."

"The chance of abnormal interruptions of our mission in our current position is less than 1.74..." His voice trails off as he considered the exasperated expression Jim gives him. "I shall inform you promptly if our situation changes."

"Thank you, Spock. Dismissed."

Spock offers a polite nod, and a moment later, Jim is alone in his ready room, staring out the viewport and feeling numb.

* * *

><p>Leonard taps the comm panel outside Jim's door. For a moment, there's no answer, and Leonard feels a brief surge of worry that Jim isn't there. Sure, it's not like they specifically planned anything this evening, but they've had dinner together for the past two nights. With the surgery tomorrow morning, Jim's got to be stewing in his own juices by now, and the last thing he needs is too much time alone. Frowning, Leonard reaches for the panel again, but the door suddenly slides open.<p>

"Bones!" Jim actually looks surprised. "I didn't realize... " He flashes a sheepish grin. "I should have expected you."

"Well, we didn't actually make plans. I just thought you could use some company."

Jim nods, and it's a shaky, jerking motion. "Yeah," he says roughly. "I could."

Leonard follows him into his quarters, watching as Jim fusses to straighten the pile of books on his coffee table. "What have you been doing?" Leonard asks.

Jim shrugs, then flops heavily on the couch, waving his hand to invite Leonard to join him. "Reading." He sounds distracted. "I sent my mother a comm. Didn't tell her what was going on - just can't tell her something like that - but I told her about the missions we've been on lately. Not Antos. Just the good stuff. Said I hoped she was doing well."

Leonard nods, taking in Jim's nervous posture, pale complexion, and the circles under his eyes. "It's good that you're writing her. I think you could tell her some of the unpleasant stuff, too, Jim. She's been out here. She knows the kind of things that happen in deep space."

"Don't want to worry her."

"I know there's no point arguing with you about that, but I still think you should tell her. Have you had anything to drink tonight?"

Jim gives him a pointed look. "You said no booze."

"I didn't mean booze. I want you to keep drinking fluids until 2200. Here," he says, standing again and crossing the room. "Let me get us some tea."

"Tea, Bones?" Jim's voice is amused, and Leonard glances back over his shoulder to see a mild grin on Jim's face. "Next time you tell me you're not a mother hen, I'll remind you of this."

Leonard raises an eyebrow. "Doctor's prerogative. When ya can't have good liquor, tea is the next best thing to soothe the jitters." He turns back to the drink slot and calls up two cups of hot tea, and carries them back over to where Jim is sitting on the couch, staring at him with mock-incredulity. "Sometimes the old-fashioned remedies are the best."

Jim holds his hand out and accepts the cup. "Thanks," he says dryly, before taking a small sip, then wrapping his hands around the mug.

"So, what's on your mind, kid?" Leonard asks as he settles himself on the other end of the sofa.

Jim doesn't look up at him. "What do you think?"

Leonard takes a sip of tea and sighs. "It'll work out just fine, Jim. After tomorrow, you put this all behind you and go back to normal."

Jim chokes a short laugh. "What's normal anymore, Bones? Not that I've _ever_ done normal, but after this? Antos _happened_. I've lived as a pregnant man for two months. I'm starting to think that my life is never going to be normal." He shakes his head, staring at his cup in his hands. He's practically twitching. "And I know you're confident that it'll go well tomorrow, but I don't like the thought of... _surgery._"

Seeing Jim this worked up hurts, but Leonard is hesitant to physically reach out quite yet. "I know, but after tomorrow the embryo's going to be gone. Antos is over. It won't define your reality from here on out."

"What's my reality, Bones?" He finally looks up, and the wide-eyed expression reminds Bones a bit of a caged animal. "I'm trying to pin it down, but everything just keeps getting uprooted on me again. I used to be able to handle my own shit, and do it on my own two feet. I feel like a fucking turtle, flipped on its back."

Leonard's breath catches for a moment, because he's not sure what to say. How the hell is he supposed to respond to that? Shifting slightly in his seat, he faces Jim more directly. "Do you really feel that helpless?"

"You tell me. I'm gonna be flat on my back tomorrow."

"Jim," Leonard says as firmly as possible, "you're the youngest captain in Starfleet, in command of the flagship, on a grand adventure to take on the galaxy and see what you might find along the way. You've been through things that would make most people crumble into a pathetic little ball, and you always come out kicking. I've never met anyone as resilient as you are. Flat on your back or not, you're never helpless. You've always been one of the strongest people I know." He feels his expression soften. "It's why I love ya, kid."

Jim's pallor gives way to a warm flush of his cheeks, and he hides behind another sip of tea. "I suppose," he mumbles, then sets his tea aside. "I just want to take control of my own decisions again." He holds up a hand before Leonard can protest. "I know you said it's my choice, but really, nothing has really been up to me since I got back from Antos. Even if I had the right to refuse certain things... you knew I couldn't. Not really."

A gruesome image flashes through Leonard's imagination: Jim dying... either bleeding out or suffering through some sort of catastrophic physiological collapse, and absolutely refusing any treatment, even as he's dying in Leonard's arms. Leonard shudders deeply and pushes the horrific thought aside.

"I know that the hell you went through on Antos siderailed you into things that you'd wished hadn't happened, but... I told you, Jim, you can refuse anything and everything up to the point where it's an immediate matter of life or death. You have that right. I'm the CMO, and your best friend, and... maybe more than that." His throat tightens slightly. "But I don't have the right to force anything on you. And I won't." He swallows back a surge of fear. "If you choose not to walk into sickbay tomorrow morning, I'll probably yell at you and try to talk you into being reasonable, but I can't make you do it. I'd be obligated to tell Starfleet everything, but... I won't violate your body without express permission unless you're dying."

Jim hesitates for a second, then wordlessly slides across the couch. Automatically, Leonard raises his arm and lets Jim lean sideways into him, resting against his chest as Leonard squeezes Jim's shoulders.

"I'm sorry, Bones."

"Me too, Jim. Me too."

They sit quietly for a moment, and while Leonard's mind feels oddly blank, sated by the reassuring weight of Jim against his chest, he can practically hear the gears turning in Jim's brain. Finally, Jim speaks in a low whisper.

"Bones... tell me about Joanna."

Feeling awkward and wishing Jim had asked about anything else, Leonard lets himself drift through stories of Joanna as a baby, the early tribulations of fatherhood, and the things he wishes he'd done differently. He manages to shift topics, getting Jim to ramble about upcoming missions and long-term career plans.

The more Jim talks about the future - considering what he's planning five, ten, and even twenty years ahead - the more he seems to relax. His body is warm and comforting against Leonard's side, and he can almost forget that in nine hours' time, Jim's going to be lying on his operating table with his life on the line. For now, it's just them. Jim is whole and vibrant, alive and alert. The couch is comfortable and the room is safe and familiar.

Finally, Leonard looks over at Jim's old-fashioned clock on the desk. "Jim... it's 2330. I think you ought to get some sleep."

Instantly, Jim's body tenses against his own. "I... sure. Okay." He leans away from Leonard and stands, leaving spot where he was sitting feeling too empty. "You're right."

"Do you want me to stay?"

Jim looks down at him, and for the first time since Antos, there's no hesitation. "Yeah. I was going to ask you if you would. If you don't mind."

Leonard smiles. "Only if you promise not to hog the blankets like usual."

Jim wanders off to the bathroom to get ready, and Leonard digs into the dresser drawer where he keeps some spare clothes. He stares at his t-shirts lying next to Jim's, feeling a bit wistful at the fact that he hasn't used the clothes he keeps in Jim's room since before Antos. Jim has a similar small stockpile of clothes in his room, too. He strips off his uniform and pulls on a clean t-shirt and a pair of fresh boxer shorts.

By the time he's ready, Jim is already sitting on the side of the bed, leaning back on his elbows. The kid looks like he's a million light years away. "You okay, Jim?"

Jim glances sideways at him with an unreadable expression. "Course I am." He tilts his head towards the vacant side of his bed. "Coming to bed?"

Leonard offers a warm smile and a nod before climbing into bed. "Come on, kid. Lie down and try to get some sleep."

"Okay. Lights."

The room flicks into darkness, and Leonard feels Jim shifting and shuffling next to him under the blankets before he finally feels the warm, reassuring pressure of Jim's shoulder and thigh pressed up alongside him. It might not be perfect, and tomorrow is going to be hell, but for now... it's good enough.


	7. Chapter 7

**Day 50**

Jim lies awake for over an hour and a half in the dark, listening to Bones' slow, even breathing before he gives up.

He should have known that he wouldn't be able to fall asleep. Insomnia is a familiar companion in times of stress. He can't shut his mind off, and the longer he shifts around on the bed, trying to find a comfortable position, the more alert he gets.

In the Academy, he'd passed off his sleepless nights as a point of pride. "Stayed up all night working on my paper for Tactics," he'd tell Bones nonchalantly in the morning, conveniently omitting the hours he'd spent tossing and turning in his bunk, ruminating over his coursework and plagued with doubts about his own abilities.

Bones never seemed impressed, though. "Don't leave your assignments till the last minute next time, idiot," he told him once. "Sleep's important. Don't come cryin' to me, looking for a stim shot, when you start crashing."

Jim could never quite bring himself to ask for a sleep aid, not even after he became captain of the _Enterprise_. On principle, he avoids medications as much as possible, and asking for help with such a simple thing as falling asleep seems embarrassing. Plus, he'd have to explain to Bones that he's been hiding the problem from him all these years. It's just easier to pretend that he stayed up because he'd planned a surprise inspection in the middle of gamma shift, or to claim that he's developed a sudden impulse to catch up on his paperwork.

His stomach twists unpleasantly. It's been hurting since early evening, but it's just a bad case of nerves, he knows. Hell, he even feels bloated, and the cause of that is all too obvious. Tomorrow, it'll be gone anyway, so there's no reason to complain about the pain now. He squints at the antique clock on his desk - the only memento he brought with him from Iowa, a gift from his grandfather Tiberius when he was six - and almost groans aloud. 0125. Bones, a sound sleeper who makes efficient use of the limited sleep time he has, won't be up for at least six hours. Disgusted, he kicks off the tangled, sweaty sheets and slips out of bed.

He dresses quickly in the dark and pulls on his boots. Bones doesn't move. Jim tries not to resent the way Bones seems to be able to lose himself in sleep, even though he's obviously got his own concerns about the surgery. The more rational part of him argues that he wouldn't want a sleep-deprived surgeon... but the immature, scared part wishes that Bones would keep him company and talk him down.

A few minutes later, he's in the main observation lounge, his favorite part of the ship after the bridge. To his relief, it's empty. He's lucky, because it's a popular place for romantic trysts and meditative retreats. There's very little there besides the huge, curved windows - just a few cushioned seats built into the walls and some small tables. The deck's very design is a reminder of the fragility of life in the inconceivable vastness of space. Or, as Jim prefers to think of it, a tribute to man's ingenuity and taste for exploration.

Jim engages the privacy lock. It's not a security lockout - Spock, McCoy, or any officer of Lieutenant rank or higher could easily override it if they want - but it's enough to keep out hopeful couples looking for a secluded place to make out. He's not running away this time. He just needs a place to do some quiet thinking.

He takes a moment to stand by the windows before his stomach twinges again and he seeks out the comfort of the nearest seat, pulling his feet up onto the cushion and wrapping his hands around his knees. Curled up, as if that gives him a sense of protection, shielding his aching stomach. _Fetal position,_ his mind supplies.

Ha.

He's been going over the conversation with Spock in his head, again and again. _Facing your fears and overcoming them. _He's not sure that he's really as courageous as Spock would like to believe. He knows that he has a reputation for being a wild daredevil - which he was, for a while, as a teenager, not to mention a petty criminal and a hacker who'd had too many run-ins with the law - and he's never denied it. It's part of Captain Kirk's Shameful Past, as the tabloids call it, but Jim isn't ashamed of any of it.

It's the part that came before it that he's ashamed of, the part that no one, not even Bones, knows anything about.

There was nothing special about him as a kid. _Nothing_. He was quiet and responsible, a conscientious student who tried not to stand out, even when things came laughably easily to him. He did his chores on time without being reminded. He'd learned early on not to make waves, not to draw fire, not to call attention to himself the way his brother did.

Sam resented him for it. Sam was the opposite: strong, loud, and provocative. He wasn't afraid of his own shadow like Jim, and he was openly confrontational with their uncle Frank. He was brave and stubborn and proud, and as long as he was around, Jim was safe.

Back then, that was what he wanted. To be safe, and to stay out of everyone's way.

Until he couldn't do that anymore. Until he took _a leap into the unknown_, and nothing was ever the same after that.

* * *

><p><em>"Get the hell out of the house! When your mom comes back, she can deal with you!"<em>

_In the dead quiet of the summer afternoon, Frank's angry shouts can be heard clearly from the house all the way out to the barn. Jim flinches at what sounds like the crash of an overturned piece of furniture and the banging of the porch door. He hurries out of the barn, arriving in time to see Sam storm out of the house, followed closely by his uncle. Sam's holding his jacket wadded in his hand and his old beige backpack is on his shoulders._

_"Well, then go! Run away! You think I give a damn?" The louder Frank yells, the quicker Sam moves, almost as if Frank's pushing him right off their property._ _Sam looks absolutely furious, and there's a bitter determination in his eyes which scares Jim._

_Jim doesn't ask what happened, because by now he's learned that these fights don't have a clear cause. Maybe Sam left the dishes in the sink, or got into another fight at school. Either way, Jim can tell from the aggressive way Frank's shouting and waving his arms that he's been drinking. Lately he's been working less and lying around the house more, and when he drinks, his temper is explosive._

_Maybe Sam should get away for a few hours, just to cool down, he thinks. But Frank's looking about ready to hit somebody, and if Sam leaves, Jim's going to be his next target._

_"Where are you going?" Jim asks._

_"As far as I can get!" Sam flings the words out loud enough for Frank to hear. _

_"Which won't be far enough! This is _my_ house, not yours, not your mother's!"_

_Jim stares glumly at them both, wishing they'd just stop, somehow. Frank seems to realize that Sam is a lost cause, and turns on Jim. "What do you want, Jimmy?"_

_Good question. He wants a lot of things, not the least of which is for his mother to come back and for everybody to just calm down. "I just don't want my brother to go."_

_Jim's meek reply just seems to infuriate him further. "Well, what you want doesn't matter. You're no one! And I asked you to wash the car. How many damn times do I need to repeat myself?" _

_Jim looks up at him resentfully, but doesn't say anything. Frank is a lot bigger than he is, bigger than Sam, tall and heavyset. When he gets like this, there's nothing Jim can say that won't make things worse._

_With a look of disgust, Frank turns back to Sam. "Go!" he yells, and stomps back into the house._

_Seeing his chance, Jim runs up to Sam. "Please stay."_

_"I can't take Uncle Frank anymore! Mom has no idea what he's like when she's not around. Did you hear him talking like he's our dad? That's not even his car that you're washing, that's dad's car!"_

_Sam's serious this time, Jim realizes with a pang of anxiety. He's really leaving and he's not coming back, and then Jim's going to be _alone_. With Frank._

_Sam starts walking, Jim following helplessly at his heels. "You're gonna be okay," Sam says with a cynical sort of sneer. "You always are. Always doin' everything right. Good grades, obeying every stupid order..."_

_He's never said anything like this to Jim before, and Jim's throat is so tight he can't even form the words to defend himself. Sure, he's tried to be a good kid, tried not to draw too much attention to himself. Sam's the one who always makes trouble, and look what it's gotten him: bad grades, constant battling with their uncle, and their mother's disappointed look over the subspace channel. Sam doesn't care how mad Frank gets, and he doesn't lie or try to hide anything._

_Jim just tries to stay out of everybody's way. It's safer if nobody knows what you're really thinking._

_Sam stops suddenly, turning around to face Jim. "I can't be a Kirk in this house. Show me how to do that and I'll stay." Jim doesn't know what to say to that, because he doesn't really understand what Sam is talking about. He's never really thought about what being a Kirk means, other than having a famous dead father and a mother who's never around because she's serving Starfleet in the black._

_Sam just looks beyond him, like he's not even expecting an answer… or like Jim's just part of all the things that he can't stand at home. "I'll see ya." He doesn't hug Jim or even give him a brotherly clap on the shoulder, but Jim knows that he's leaving and not coming back._

_Jim doesn't say goodbye. He's silently frantic, watching Sam walk away. _

_For lack of anything better to do, he heads back to the barn. If he doesn't wash the car, Frank will just get madder._

_He gets out the special soap and fills the bucket. He's hardly aware of what he's doing as he moves the rag over the smooth red metal._

Always doing everything right._ Sam's accusation hurts, because Jim knows it's true. He's afraid of showing who he really is. He's tons smarter than the other kids at school, even knows more than his teachers in most of his subjects, but he never says anything. He just finishes his work as quickly as he can and then sits quietly at the back of the class and reads. He always tries to look cheerful when his mother calls, even if he's been hiding in his room all afternoon because Frank's on a rampage. He doesn't want to make her upset, because what can she do to help, anyway? He's quiet and well-behaved and he never says what he really thinks. Nobody really knows him, not his mother, not Sam, not his teachers, not the other kids at school._

_He's no one, like Frank said. He's nothing, and nobody sticks around for a _nothing.

_It's when he's wiping down the ancient leather interior that it happens. He moves the sun visor and is startled when the keys drop down into his lap._

_And that's when Jim has the biggest epiphany of his life. Why should he keep playing by the rules? They don't work anyway. What's the point of being a good kid when it just makes everybody leave you in the end, because you're not worth staying around for? Being afraid has gotten him nowhere. He's got nothing more to lose. _

_He turns the key in the ignition. The engine roars to life, loud and powerful. Time to find out who he really is. Time to do something nobody expects._

The hell with everybody_, he thinks. He's done being quiet little Jimmy who tries too hard and is always such a good boy._

_He's _James Tiberius Kirk_. And he's going for a ride._

* * *

><p>God, he hasn't thought about that day in years. Sam never came back, although he got back in touch with their mother after a few months. Jim knows a few things about him – he's a researcher now, some kind of biologist living on Deneva – but he hasn't seen him since.<p>

That day, though, was a changing point in his life. It was the first time he ever allowed himself to rebel. And after he'd sent the Corvette flying off into the quarry and scrambled back up to his feet, he knew there was no turning back. When the cop confronted him, he felt a rush of satisfaction and pride as he declared his name. It wasn't just adrenaline - he _understood _something now, like he'd finally woken up from a long sleep.

Even when the cop dragged him back to the farm and Frank's eyes got colder than they'd ever been before, he wasn't afraid. It was worth it, because he was free now, free to do and be whatever he wanted. Even if it meant taking on all of Frank's fury or seeing the crushing disappointment in his mother's eyes. It was what he'd chosen, and he wasn't going to let other people limit his world ever again.

From then on, defying expectations seemed to become the driving force in his life. It fueled his short-lived career as a juvenile delinquent – because by then, after he'd stopped trying in school and at home, he felt free to do _exactly_ what he wanted, even if it included breaking the law. He'd thought of it more as "testing the limits," challenging himself to find ways to break through supposedly-unbreakable security nets.

The first time he was caught and incarcerated, his mother was distraught. "You're in _jail_, Jim!" she'd said. "Is this what you want? Is this where you're headed from now on?" He'd just told her, "Mom, it was a stupid mistake." The truth was that the only thing that felt like a mistake was getting caught. He still hated to worry his mother, even after all those years. But he wasn't overly perturbed at being labeled a criminal. It was like breaking through another envelope, on his way to… wherever.

Captain Pike had unknowingly pushed that button when he dared Jim to "do better", because by that point, no one seemed to expect him to do anything but disappoint. Everyone in Riverside, his own mother included, seemed to think he'd never be more than a good-for-nothing drifter, or a low-life criminal. And Jim had grown up with a simmering resentment of Starfleet, not for taking away his father, but for its relentless pull on his mother. Enlisting seemed like the last thing that made sense, and that was what made it so attractive to Jim in his half-drunk state.

Pike held himself a little distant at first, letting Jim get his bearings that first year. In his second year, though, Pike became his academic advisor and began mentoring him. He became, after a while, the first father figure in Jim's life who believed in him and didn't betray his trust.

Well, Pike would sure be surprised to hear that Jim himself is almost about to be a father...

Jim Kirk, a dad. He wonders how Pike would respond if he asked for paternity leave. Maternity leave. Whatever. Maybe Pike would want to throw him and Bones a baby shower. The image is so silly that he finds himself smiling, then laughing out loud, even though there's no one to hear him.

Why the hell is he thinking of this? He's getting loopy from lack of sleep. Good thing Bones isn't here to tell him how ridiculous he sounds, or offer to sedate him into oblivion if he keeps acting like this. He's fucking delirious is what he is.

He pushes himself up from the cushioned bench and leans over his knees. His gut is cramping miserably, and he can't find a comfortable position. Sleep is pretty damned unlikely at this point. Well, he'll sleep most of tomorrow anyway, whether he likes it or not, so he supposes it doesn't matter. Bones will probably chew him out in the morning, but it's not like he can help it if his mind won't calm down.

He stares out at the planet below. From here, Telos III looks like an azure jewel, startlingly reminiscent of Earth. He watches it for a few minutes, almost hypnotized by the beautiful swirls of green and blue and white.

He finally shakes himself out of his trance. "Computer, enhance magnification by ten," he says. The image shimmers for a split second, then coalesces into a sharper picture, the outlines of the greenish-brown continents visible. Now the planet is clearly alien, the continents' forms unfamiliar and exotic.

It's a good reminder that he's nowhere near home. He's exploring new planets and discovering new civilizations, going where nobody has gone before, and making the best decisions he can based on his training, his limited experience, and his judgment. A grand adventure, just like Bones said.

_His_ adventure. His decisions and his judgment. His leap into the unknown.

He's caught, suddenly, by a realization that strikes him to his core. He knows_,_with an intuitive understanding, why he can't sleep and why his stomach has been tying itself into knots all night.

He doesn't want the surgery.

This embryo is alive. It may be a product of a violation - of _rape_, if he's being honest, saying the word for the first time in his own mind - and a medical impossibility, and it may pose a danger to his own health, but in the end, it's turning into a_ baby_. A real baby. And he just can't choose to end that willingly, not while there's a tiny chance that he could carry the pregnancy to term. _New life forms._ It's his chance, maybe his only chance, to be a father. They could be a family: Bones and the baby and Jim.

And to hell with it - he's not going to let anyone else tell him what to do anymore. That's the core of it. This is his fucking choice.

Let everybody gossip as much as they want. Let Bones rant at him for being irresponsible with his health and for not thinking things through. He's defied expectations before and it doesn't scare him. As for Starfleet... well, the ship is months out from Earth and subspace communications aren't reliable enough for him to discuss this with any of them, even Pike, face-to-face. He's got to make his own decision, and he knows, finally, what he wants.

Bones told him that he has the right to refuse the operation. He'll respect Jim's decision, even if he disagrees with it. And Bones could be wrong about how dangerous it is to continue the pregnancy. Nobody knows what will happen because it's never been done before, not like this.

Maybe the Antosians have discovered the one safe method for male pregnancy, and couples from all over the galaxy will go there for their famous male fertility clinic. The idea is so ludicrous that he starts laughing again, because if ever there was a situation that needed a little humor to cut through the tension, this is it.

His laughter cuts off abruptly as a sharp cramp seems to seize his abdominal muscles, and _shit_, that was uncomfortable. It's nerves, of course. It has to be. He's never been this nervous in his life. Or maybe he's just got a bad case of heartburn because he hasn't eaten anything. And he's exhausted, and it's making him a bit giddy. His stomach is twisting, but now that he's made his decision, it'll be okay.

Another cramp tightens through his gut, this time bringing a tight wave of nausea. He breathes through it until the worst of it passes, but he can feel a trickle of sweat running down his upper lip.

He raises a shaky hand to wipe it away, but as he pulls his hand away, it's coated in a streak of blood. He feels his eyes widen as he looks at the glistening red smear.

There's a primal reaction to the sight of his own blood. He feels a cold sweat break out on his skin as he stares at his hand. Another trickle of blood oozes down his lip, and he realizes that he's being an idiot and ought to go grab a tissue to stop the bleeding. He had enough bloody noses as a kid from the dry air of Iowa winters and the losing end of fistfights. He knows what to do. It's fine.

Besides, it's probably just those damned anticoagulants. If he can get a nosebleed out of nowhere, that's just proof that Bones shouldn't have stuck him on those drugs. Feeling mildly annoyed and, to his surprise, a little bit dizzy, Jim goes to the bathroom at the back of the observation deck, grabs a handful of tissue paper, and pinches his nose. He stumbles back to the bench facing the viewport and sits down again.

Maybe he should call Bones, but the man needs his sleep. If he's going to be operating in just a few hours, the last thing Jim wants is to make the man even more exhausted than he is. It's just a nosebleed and a stomach ache.

Another wrenching cramp and wave of nausea run through him.

_Okay, so it's a bad stomach ache_.

And wait... Bones isn't going to be operating on him in a few hours, because he is _not_ going through with the surgery. He's keeping the baby. He's James T. Kirk, boldly going _where no man has gone before._

The twisted implications of Starfleet's motto rip an insane laugh from him. This is certainly going where no man has gone before, and it's pretty hilarious to him right now.

He stares out the viewport, watching Telos spin serenely beneath the ship, and it seems brighter than it did before. Or maybe fuzzier. It's a beautiful planet, and he would have liked to go down and see it. The images recorded by the landing parties showed breathtaking views - rich plant life and incredible scenery. Looks like a place to take a vacation. Or raise a family.

Jim feels a sudden urge to tell Bones that he's keeping the baby, but as he's reaching for his communicator, he feels another trickle of blood down his face. He's bled straight through the tissues.

That's not good.

Getting up again, he goes to the restroom and grabs a thick fistful of tissues. He pulls away the used wad of tissue from his face. It's completely saturated with blood. He drops the blood-soaked tissues in surprise, and it lands with a wet smack on the floor. He looks up at the mirror, and suddenly something seems really wrong.

The blood is flowing down his face, his skin is oddly pale, and everything looks wrong. Out of focus. He's dizzy, and he feels sluggish, as if everything is in slow motion, even his thoughts.

His stomach clenches again, and it feels like it's ripping across his whole abdomen.

_No._

There can't be a problem now. Not now that he's decided to keep the embryo - wait, it's a fetus now, isn't it? - and determine his own course. Not when he's decided to make a stand against what those alien monsters did to him. That would be such a cruel twist of fate that he refuses to believe it. It's not happening.

Still, he's got to make sure everything is okay. Just in case. He should call Bones. He'll fix it. Bones can fix anything.

Pressing the clean handful of tissues to his face, he stumbles back to the bench where he dropped his communicator, but as he goes to flip it open, it buzzes in his hand. Bones' voice is coming through, and he sounds oddly frantic.

"_McCoy to Kirk! Jim, are you there?_"

He flips the comm open, and replies. "I'm here, in the observation lounge."

_"What the hell are you - never mind! Jim, what's going on? The med sensor triggered the alarm!"_

_"_I... there's something wrong. My nose is bleeding. I don't know why." He's trying to sound coherent, but words seem to be eluding him. "Do you think that's bad?"

"_Your nose is bleeding? Did you hit it?_"

Why would he hit his own damned nose? "No, 'course not. It just started for no reason. And... my stomach hurts."

There's silence for a moment, and that seems worrisome. "_Jim, do you feel steady enough to get to sickbay on your own?_"

"I think... maybe. I'm not sure." The room seems even more tippy now. "I'm kinda dizzy. It's gotta be nerves, Bones. And I haven't gotten any sleep." He has to make Bones understand. There can't be something wrong, not now that he's decided to keep it. He can't let himself believe otherwise.

"_Jim... stay there, and try to keep still, okay? Breathe as evenly as possible, and don't move. I'm coming down to the observation lounge now._"

"But Bones..."

"_I said don't move, Jim!_"

"Okay." There's an urgency in Bones' voice that overcomes any lingering thoughts he has about making it to sickbay on his own. He'll just wait here. Maybe Bones is right, and if he just breathes steadily, he'll be fine.

"_McCoy out._"

Jim lets the communicator fall out of his hand, and he's distantly aware of the thud it makes on the floor. A wave of dizziness hits him, and he leans heavily against the bench, still holding the tissues to his nose. He knows he's getting blood on the fabric, but he can't be bothered to care right now. He can't deny it anymore - the pain is too much, and he's feeling too sick. Something is very wrong.

His heart feels too fast in his chest, and his head feels odd. He can't get enough air. He's breathing too shallowly, but he can't seem to help it. He doesn't realize he's no longer alone in the room until a firm hand is tilting his face up, and Bones' peaky, tight expression is right in front of him.

"Bones... what's going on?"

"Hold on, Jim. Keep breathing steady."

The tricorder is whirring, and suddenly Bones gasps. "Dammit! Zhang, help me get him on the stretcher, _quick_."

Jim blinks in confusion as suddenly he's being pulled up by both arms and guided to a stretcher that he hadn't even noticed was in the room. He hadn't seen Nurse Zhang either. "Bones, what's wrong?" His legs hit the side of the stretcher and he sits down automatically, too dazed to protest. In fact, he's not quite sure what's happening. He drops the hand holding the tissues - they're soaked through again - and barely notices the blood that continues to trickle down his face. The nurse is pulling his legs onto the stretcher and fastening a strap over them. "Bones?"

Bones crouches down and looks Jim square in the eye, and it's the only clear thing Jim can focus on. "Jim... this is serious. And no, it's not your fault. You didn't do anything wrong. But we've got to take you into surgery _now_."

A feeling of panic wells up in Jim's chest. "Wait, what? Now? No!"

But Bones is looking at Nurse Zhang. "Let's get him out of here."

"What's the matter with -" He breaks off into a cough as some blood runs back into his throat, and he tilts his head forward.

Bones is barking into his comm unit as he pushes the stretcher out the door. "McCoy to M'Benga! The Captain is having a DIC. We're moving him into emergency surgery. Get Chapel down to sickbay. We'll need her."

There's a tinny voice replying through the communicator, but Jim can't make out the words over the sound of his pulse rushing in his ears. The stretcher is moving too fast, and the walls of the hallway are a blur. He's too dizzy, and leans his head back against the stretcher's headrest, but then there's a suffocating feeling of blood oozing back down his throat. He tries to get a look at Bones' face. Bones is tight-lipped and wide-eyed, guiding the stretcher with one hand as he stares at the tricorder in his other hand.

"Bones, what's happening? What's a DIC?"

"It's an emergency, Jim. A really goddamned dangerous emergency." His voice turns low and angry.. "I can't believe the sensor didn't pick up the warning signs sooner. I should never have set the tolerance limits so high."

The stretcher jostles as they roll into the turbolift, but Jim barely notices. If Bones isn't telling him any more than that, there's got to be something horribly wrong. He feels dazed, but all he can think about is the fragile life that he's just decided to protect. "What kind of emergency? What's happening to the baby?"

"It's an embryo, Jim," comes Bones' terse reply, "and there's nothing I can do for it. Right now..." He finally makes eye contact. "I told you that you'd have a choice unless it was a matter of life and death. Jim, you don't have a choice anymore."

"What?" A block of ice lodges itself in Jim's already-aching stomach. This isn't right. This can't be right.

The turbolift opens and suddenly they're moving again. "No, you can't... I made up my mind, Bones. Want to keep it." Tears are starting to blur his vision as surely as the blood is making him choke again. He leans his head forward; he's so dizzy. "Don't do this, Bones. It's too fast. You're not listening to me..."

They're pushing through the doors of sickbay, and everything is spinning and tilting out of control. Chapel is rushing towards them, and he can see M'Benga waiting as they roll into the surgical suite. Bones is talking rapidly - something about _tissue necrosis_ and _catastrophic failure of the uterine sac_ and Jim can't wrap his head around any of it but it sounds terrifying. There's movement at the corner of his eye, and Bones is reaching towards his neck with a hypospray. A lance of fear pierces the thick mental fog, and Jim dodges away.

"No! Promise to save the baby first!"

Firm hands grip his arms, and Bones' face swims into view in front of him. "Jim, stop struggling! You're not thinking straight. I can't save the embryo, and I need to focus on saving you! Goddammit, kid, don't fight me!"

"No!"

Bones shakes his head, then looks up at the other people in the room. More hands grasp Jim's arms, and there's the hypospray at his neck and he can't duck away this time. Time slows and the room blurs even more. Hands are lifting him, and he's on his back, staring up at the ceiling and the overhead lights. It's painfully bright, and he squeezes his eyes shut.

There's a device placed on his nose, buzzing oddly, and it feels like it's suffocating him even as the choking flow of blood into his throat stops. He feels claustrophobic. Restrained. His clothes are being cut away, stripping him of his security, his dignity. He's naked on a table, and hands are holding him down. There's a pressure and sharp pain in his left hand, and he tries to pull away, but he can't.

"Bones... please don't do this." His own words are garbled and confused, and he really has no idea what he's saying anymore. All he knows is that they're going to cut into him again, they're doing it against his will, and he can't take it. There's a life that's going to be snuffed out, and it'll all be over. Or he'll die, and it won't matter.

There's a hand on his cheek, warm, despite the odd numbness in his skin. Then someone grasps his hand, and pulls it up. There's stubble under his fingertips, and Jim opens his eyes to see Bones hovering over him. His features are blurry and his expression is strained, but his eyes are steady.

"Jim, I'll take care of you, and you'll be fine."

"But..."

"You need to relax now."

There's a heaviness flooding through his veins, and the room is getting darker. The drugs are pulling at him relentlessly, and he's going under. "Please, Bones..."

"Quiet, Jim. Don't fight it. Just breathe, kid."

"No..."

"I've got you. It'll be okay. I promise."

The words are decisive, but there's a bleak uncertainty in Bones expression. Jim wants to protest again, but his mouth won't work right. His eyes won't stay open either. The last thing he sees is Bones staring down at him. He tries to focus on the hand squeezing his own, on the rough stubble under his fingertips, but finally, even that fades away as the darkness swallows him.


	8. Chapter 8

**Part 8**

Being the CMO on a Federation exploration vessel means Leonard has seen a lot.

He's seen disease and danger, silence and darkness, and a whole lot of surprises. He's watched plagues devastate entire planets. He's witnessed humanoid species with the ability to automatically regenerate life and limb. He's seen the triumph of survival. He's seen bodies strewn about like broken dolls after battles.

He's seen a lot of death. It never gets easier.

Loss of life is expected in the vast blackness of space: inhospitable, unknown, vacuous. He's filled out too many death certificates for members of the _Enterprise_ crew, and each one hurts. For all the self-punishment it causes, he hopes it never gets easier. That would mean he'd lost his own humanity. But when death is so close to him, it has to rip a little piece of his soul out.

At least a fetus doesn't require a death certificate.

The fetus - and it _was_ a fetus, just starting its eighth week after conception, no longer an embryo - had already been dead for a few hours before the DIC started. Despite Jim's demands, there was nothing _to_ save, even if he'd wanted to. He could only guess as to what had initially caused it. A tiny clot within the placenta, or in the abnormal blood vessels leading to the uterine sac? A hemorrhage that had disrupted blood flow to the fetus? Hormone imbalance, developmental anomaly, immunological reaction, poor oxygenation, metabolic waste accrual... all he can do is guess. Something went wrong, and the fetus died. From there, everything had crashed like a set of dominoes.

The uterine sac had rapidly become necrotic as the abnormal connective tissue holding it together broke down, and the decaying tissue triggered the disseminated intravascular coagulation event - the DIC. Tiny clots began to form throughout Jim's body, making blood flow sluggish, decreasing oxygen and nutrient delivery to the brain, the heart... everything. And the sick irony was that a DIC uses up all the clotting factors, leaving the remaining blood so deficient in platelets and clotting proteins that the patient begins to bleed... everywhere. Despite all the incredible advances of medicine, it's still one of the deadliest emergencies a doctor can face.

At that point, even with the risk of a bleed-out, he'd had no choice but to operate to remove the dead tissue and hope the microcellular surgical technique would work, even in the worst possible scenario.

Leonard pulls his shaking hands down from his face and looks numbly at the formal medical report on the surgery, staring at the last line of dictation:

_Surgery successful._

Barely, but Jim had pulled through.

Leonard lets out an unsteady breath and leans back so that he can see Jim lying on the biobed, still unconscious, but breathing on his own. He'll be asleep for a while longer, which is just as well. At least now, his body can rest and recover peacefully for a little while. He's still in the process of receiving his fourth unit of blood and additional platelets. Even with pain meds, he'll be sore as hell when he wakes up.

_When he wakes up_. At least he _will_ wake up, but when he does, Leonard has no idea what mental state the poor kid will be in. He'd been frantic until they'd sedated him.

It's haunting him, Leonard realizes - the look on Jim's face as he begged, deliriously, for him to save the fetus. After everything they'd discussed, _why_, goddammit? What the hell had Jim been thinking?

It would be nice to brush it off as the ravings of a man who was experiencing a transient ischemic attack from the miniscule clots throughout his brain, reducing blood flow and leaving him foggy-headed and unable to understand what was happening around him. Or perhaps he could chalk it up to Jim's medical phobia leaving him desperate for any reason not to be dragged into surgery so suddenly. But those answers are just too easy, and he has a gnawing feeling that it was more complicated than that.

Who knew where Jim's mind had wandered as he'd roamed the ship, unable to sleep? He's creative, brilliant, and prone to intuitive leaps of logic… especially in times of stress. It was precisely that ability that had saved them during the Narada crisis. Something made Jim come to the conclusion that in spite of everything, he wanted the baby with a fierce intensity bordering on desperation.

Whatever the reason, now that Leonard has finished the surgery and has a minute to think, Jim's desperate plea has left him feeling gutted.

_"Promise to save the baby first!_"

No, even though he could blame it on delirium, drowsiness, or pure terror, Jim _did _decide to keep it. For some unfathomable reason, he wanted the baby. _Their baby_.

Goddammit.

Leonard leans his forehead into his hands and stares at the PADD on his desk. The words of his report blur before his eyes. He's got to report it to Starfleet now, in full, but he can barely focus on it. It's all too much for him to really wrap his head around. He'd slept for barely three hours before jumping into emergency surgery. Alpha shift has already begun, though, and his natural circadian rhythm will keep him awake for a while. But his mind is ready to shut down.

"Are you going to get some rest, Doctor?"

Leonard looks up at Nurse Chapel's sympathetic face, but can only shake his head in reply. "I know I look like hell, Christine, but you know I can't sleep right now."

"He's okay, Leonard," she says, walking into his office and leaning against the doorframe. She folds her arms low across her chest. "We caught him in time. His blood chemistry should be back to normal within two more hours, the surgery itself was textbook perfect, and he's resting. You should, too." A faint smile, slightly broken, bends her lips. "You saved him."

"I'm not sure I did." Leonard doesn't even know what he means by that, and he shakes his head and brushes her off with a wave of his hand before she can ask. "Go take yourself off duty. I woke you up in the middle of your normal sleep cycle, too, and we've got two other nurses here during alpha shift."

"Okay, but you know M'Benga will either chase you out of sickbay or sedate you himself if you don't get some sleep soon."

"That man's been up all night, too," Leonard grumbles lightly, but at the pointed look from Nurse Chapel, he sighs and tosses her a mock salute. "Aye aye."

She nods in satisfaction, turns, and walks out the door. Leonard watches her go, but his eyes fix on Jim's biobed as she walks past.

Clenching his jaw, he saves and closes the surgical report, pushes himself heavily out of his chair, and plods out of his office. A moment later, he drops into the chair he'd placed next to Jim's biobed earlier. The position feels too disturbingly familiar, like he's returning to a place that he'd simply rather not visit again.

"Hey, kid."

Jim doesn't move. Not that Leonard expects him to.

"I'm so sorry, Jim. I really am." He leans back, taking in Jim's pale complexion and slack features. He's got more color in his face than he had even an hour ago. When Leonard closed and stepped back for the first time since surgery had begun, Jim was so pasty and gray that Leonard almost couldn't believe the biosensors telling him that he was still alive.

He's begun cycling toward consciousness as the anesthesia loosens its grip on him, so Leonard keeps talking. Jim won't understand what he's saying, but he's hoping that something in his voice will soothe Jim as he comes back to awareness. And there are some things that are a lot easier to say when Jim can only listen and not respond.

"I should have checked on you more carefully last night. I wanted you to relax, so I didn't. And now, I'll never know if the anticoagulants caused the... the miscarriage... or if taking you off the meds caused it. I'll never know what time it began. Dammit, it could have started..." His voice cracks a tiny bit, and he's grateful that nobody else is within earshot. "For all I know, it could have started while we were sittin' on the couch, drinkin' tea. You could have been leaning against my shoulder at the moment you started to die on me, and I didn't even know."

The thought that this had all happened right under his nose is leaving him feeling unbalanced. Incompetent and useless. Jim is the most important person on the ship to him. He's spent the last several weeks focusing on Jim's health in every possible detail, monitoring his biostats day and night... and the minute he let his guard slip, everything went wrong. Like the runner who slows down because the finish line is in sight, only to be beaten at the wire.

_He came through it_, Leonard reminds himself. He didn't fail. Jim's not paralyzed. His digestive system's intact, and his organs weren't damaged. But shit, that was too damned close. Jim had lost so much blood, a rarity with modern medicine. It had been touch and go...

"You're one hell of a fighter, Jim. You should know that. And you'll bounce back from this, eventually. I know it." He reaches out and wraps his hand around Jim's slack fingers. "I just hope you can forgive me for... everything."

He gives Jim's hand a squeeze, but doesn't receive one in return.

* * *

><p>The first time Jim climbs into awareness, someone's talking to him. The words don't penetrate, but he's comforted by the voice. It's good to know that he's not alone. He drifts, at peace and unconcerned. He can feel vague sensations: a heaviness in his limbs, a strange numbness in his torso. He's dizzy.<p>

He knows there's something he should remember, but he doesn't really want to leave this serene limbo. So he floats off again.

* * *

><p>The next time he wakes, he's still in the same peaceful, dreamlike state.<p>

But a second later it all comes back to him in a rush: who and where he is, what was happening just – minutes? – ago, the fear and the baby and _they're going to cut into him_, and—

"Captain, can you hear me?" someone is saying. "Don't worry, everything's fine." Nurse Chapel, his mind supplies sluggishly.

"Don't do it," he mumbles. His throat is dry and his mouth feels clumsy and stiff.

"It's all over." Chapel's voice is soft and soothing. "You're out of surgery. How do you feel? Nauseous at all?"

There are too many things for him to process all at once. He's still stuck on _It's all over_, and her other questions don't make sense. A minute ago there was a crowd of people around him, and Bones was looking down at him telling him to relax and not to fight it, and now everyone's gone. "What happened?" His throat is so parched that the words sound scratchy and weak.

"I'll give you an ice chip to suck on. It'll help your throat." Something smooth and cold is pushed between his lips, and he runs his tongue over its deliciously cool surface. It feels so good that it distracts him, and he can't remember what he wanted to say other than the fact that he wants another ice chip.

"Do you know where you are, Captain?"

That's a simple enough question, and he even knows the answer. "Sickbay." _Focu_s, he tells himself. Something important happened, something bad. What was it?

"That's right. You've just come out of surgery," she says again patiently.

He feels disoriented. Surgery… how long was he out, then? "Where's Bones?"

"I'll call Doctor McCoy in a moment."

That's not what he wants. He needs Bones here, now_. _He has to talk to him, tell him… _what_?

Before he can get his thoughts together to argue with her, she's there again, relentlessly. "Does anything hurt?"

He lets go of his thoughts about Bones to focus on his body. He's groggy and it's so hard to concentrate. His limbs still feel heavy and a little tingly, as if the drugs haven't quite worked their way out of his system. Maybe that's a good thing, because nothing hurts, really.

"'m fine."

"Any nausea?" She's got so many questions, but dammit, she's not giving him any answers. He takes a deep breath, but his stomach doesn't seem to be on the edge of revolt, so he shakes his head.

She smiles. "All right. You just rest here for a bit. I'll call Doctor McCoy." He frowns at her retreating back, confused, because Bones was just here a minute ago. Why would he leave? How much time has gone by? The last thing he remembers was Bones standing over him with a medical team, telling him that he couldn't save the embryo and he might not be able to save Jim. _It'll be okay, I promise._

But it's not okay. Something went terribly wrong, he knows that.

He twists a little on the bed, moving cautiously, trying to see what works and what doesn't. He curls his fingers and toes, stretches his legs. There's an IV catheter sticking out of the back of his hand, and he stares at it. He's not sure what that means.

He tries to roll onto his side, and that's when he realizes that _fuck_, he's sore as hell. Just the simple act of twisting himself slightly on the bed is enough to set off an unpleasant chain reaction: a sharp tug in his abdomen, followed by a deeper ache that settles uncomfortably into his belly and a throbbing pain in his skull. Something seems to pull at the skin over his stomach, taut and unnaturally stiff - a bandage, he realizes as his fingers connect with the slick, siligel surface.

It's truly over, then. He feels more than a little bewildered. One minute he was being rushed into sickbay, staring into that bright overhead light and struggling, pleading for Bones to slow down and _listen_, and now… there's a block of time missing from his awareness, a gaping hole which has left him stranded back in a reality which has clearly changed. He's had the surgery, obviously, but it doesn't feel like any time has passed at all.

A minute later, his emotions start catching up with his sluggish thought processes. It's all coming back now: the blood and the godawful cramping in his gut, his frantic pleading to save the baby, the panic in Bones' eyes as he was rushed to sickbay, the terror that ripped through him as he was _held down_ and-

"Jim." Bones is striding toward him, wearing his habitual scowl of concern, and he looks terrible: eyes bloodshot, face drawn and pale. He looks like he's been up all night, and Jim can't help but feel a pang of guilt, because it's not hard to guess why. It reminds him that he hadn't wanted to call Bones when the trouble first started because he wanted him to get a good night's sleep.

As his mind sharpens, the sequence of what happened is becoming clearer: he remembers locking himself off in the observation lounge, gazing down at the beautiful planet below, the sudden resolution that he was going to try to see this through, keep the baby if he could, be a parent… and then the flash of dread when he'd seen all the blood. He couldn't stop bleeding and he was hurting and dizzy, and then, _only then_, did he think to alert the doctor.

Shit. Why the hell did he have to wait so long? Whatever happened, it's _his_ fault.

Bracing himself, Jim waits for Bones' standard diatribe of you-oughta-be-glad-you're-injured-because-otherwise-I'd-deck-you, but Bones just gives him a small, fleeting smile. For once, his eyes don't raise automatically to the readouts over Jim's head, but stay focused on him, searching his face as if he's looking for something.

It's really bad, then.

"About time you're awake, kid. How're you feeling?"

"What happened?" He remembers Bones saying something about an emergency, some weird acronym and a catastrophic failure of something.

"You're all right, Jim. It was touch and go there for a while, and thank God I did so much practice with the microcellular techniques. But you're going to be fine."

Jim nods warily. There's something Bones isn't telling him, and his behavior is vaguely _off_ in a way that scares him. He should be angrier, ranting about how irresponsible Jim was, telling him how he'd gotten a hundred more grey hairs and it was all Jim's fault. Jim wants to hear it, because Lord knows it's true. But Bones is just looking at him sadly, and it's making Jim really fucking _nervous_. Either there's something medically wrong that Bones has to tell him, or…

Or maybe Jim's just screwed this up so badly that it's changed everything between them.

He doesn't want to be flat on his back for this conversation. It's too vulnerable a position. He starts to push up on his left elbow, ignoring the twinge that shoots out from his belly, but Bones is quicker, pushing down lightly on his chest. "Lie back, kid. You've just had major abdominal surgery, and you're not going anywhere for a while."

"Bones, what the hell happened?"

"You had a DIC, Jim. A disseminated intravascular coagulation. Your blood started clotting... tiny clots, not like the large one you had in your leg. Different things can trigger it, but once it's started, it's... well, it's a cascade effect. The clots were clogging tiny blood vessels, impeding blood flow."

Jim frowns. "Isn't clotting the opposite of bleeding? My nose was bleeding, and it wouldn't stop."

"The tiny clots used up all your clotting factors. The blood left over couldn't clot well enough, so you kept bleeding. The only way to stop it was to remove the cause of the DIC. If I hadn't done that, it would have killed you. That's why we had to rush you into surgery and couldn't wait, kid." His expression is bleak, wounded in a way Jim has seldom seen on Bones.

Jim tries to follow everything Bones is saying, but it's hard. "Remove the cause? I don't get it... "

"You lost a lot of blood. We almost couldn't stop the bleeding, and your brain wasn't getting enough blood flow for a while during the DIC anyway. Your blood chemistry is almost normalized again, but it took four units of blood to bring you back. You'll feel sluggish for a while, maybe a little confused. But you'll be fine, Jim." His gaze is far away for a moment. "You'll be fine," he says again.

Jim can't stand that look on Bones' face, and his brain just doesn't want to process this. His head hurts. He raises his left hand to his throbbing forehead, but the IV tugs at his skin uncomfortably. Lowering his hand, he stares at it in defeat. He can't quite summon the energy to object, but God, he hates seeing the tiny tube piercing his skin, attached to his vein. It's a constant reminder that there are fluids and medications flowing into his body that he can't control, but after all he's been through lately, it seems almost ludicrous to make a fuss about it.

"Do you want me to take that out?"

Jim blinks up at Bones in surprise. "Really?" he blurts. That's the last question he expected. "I mean, of course I do. Now?"

"You've got about another twenty minutes to finish this drip of saline, but after that, I'll remove it if it's bothering you. But that'll mean I'll have to administer the meds by hypo every three hours. Is that what you want?"

"I have a _choice_?" he asks, just to make sure. As a doctor, Bones usually favors the unchallenged-dictator mode of interaction. Jim's used to Bones simply taking away his choices and ignoring his preferences, accompanied by his no-nonsense, deal-with-it-dammit attitude. His sudden change of heart is only reinforcing Jim's certainty that there's something Bones isn't telling him. Maybe he's dying, and Bones is trying to be subtle about granting his last wish. Or maybe it's a sort of pre-emptive strike; Bones knows that Jim is going to start whining about it any minute, and he just doesn't have the energy for it. He's giving in without a fight, and that just seems _wrong._

Even so, Jim's not going to argue. "Take it out, then." The hypos hurt but they're not as bad as looking at a tube stuck in his body.

"How's your pain level?"

The burning in his abdomen is more insistent now, but old habits die hard. "It's fine. Bones, what about the embryo? The baby..."

Bones' eyes flick up to the monitor, then back down to him. "Jim, answer me first. If you're starting to hurt, it'll be easier to deal with now rather than later when the pain's really bad. On a scale of one to ten, how bad is it?"

Jim's relationship with pain is complicated, as Bones well knows. It's a tangled mess of associations that have been with him since childhood: anger, guilt, shame, and, sometimes, self-flagellation. It's not easy to quantify. He's hurting now, but he _deserves _it, even craves it. "It's okay, Bones. You always say a little suffering is good for the soul."

"Jim, you're not coming off a bender, you're coming out of anesthesia. Just tell me how you're feeling, for God's sake." He sounds impatient, or maybe just tired.

"It's a three. A three or a four. I don't need anything."

But Bones is already reaching for something in the cabinet, plucking out a vial filled with amber liquid. "It won't stay a four for much longer, kid." Jim's quiet as Bones injects the drug through the IV. He'd rather hold onto the pain, but there's something comforting and familiar about Bones running over his objections. That feels normal.

It's the guarded look in Bones' eyes that is anything but.

"Tell me what happened." He pitches his voice low, with just a hint of his command authority in it. "All of it. What caused the DIC? Why... why did you say you couldn't save the baby?"

Bones sighs. "The fetus had already died, Jim."

Dead. He knew it, but even so, it's hard to grasp. "How?"

"I'm not entirely sure. Even women, who are equipped for carrying a fetus to term, sometimes spontaneously abort, and there are so many reasons why it happens. Hormone fluctuation. Problems with the placenta. Anything. In your case, I think the artificial uterine sac was simply unstable, and blood flow to the fetus was disrupted." His mouth pinches. "It was probably dead before you went to bed. Maybe even before I met you in your quarters."

"Oh." That doesn't make sense, though. He was feeling fine then, just a little unsettled because of the surgery. It was later... when he couldn't sleep. That was when the uncomfortable cramping had started. It was just a minor discomfort at first… which he ignored, of course.

"I'm so sorry, Jim. I should have been checking. But I wanted you to relax before the surgery..." Bones' eyes are almost pleading. "I'm sorry."

Jim isn't even sure what to say to an apology like that. He sure as hell doesn't feel like Bones is the one who should be apologizing. It's his own damn fault, ignoring the pain in his gut even though he_ knew _he was supposed to report a symptom like that. Lying right next to the doctor, letting him sleep on obliviously, not waking him up out of some misplaced sense of consideration. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

"Was it a boy or a girl?"

Bones frowns, then just shakes his head. "I guess there's no reason to keep that from you now. It was a boy."

Jim nods. His son. _Their_ son. Gone.

He gives a harsh laugh. "Guess I wasn't cut out to be a mom." Or a dad, he thinks. But he can't say that because his throat is too constricted and he'll choke on the words.

Bones' expression tightens a bit. "It was a medical impossibility from the start. I told you that. Your body's not built to sustain a pregnancy, and this was an alien implant. You could have _died_ and you almost did. I got it out cleanly_, _and you'll heal up just fine." Bones eyes are reddened and bloodshot, and God, so _sad_. "There was no way to save the fetus, Jim. There never really was."

It's not Bones' fault, but he looks honestly regretful, and that's not right. Jim's responsible for the way things ended.

"I'm sorry," he blurts out. He's sorry for all of it: the stress and the worry of the past weeks, the stupid stunt in the gym, the way he's been avoiding Bones since Antos, the desperate plea at the end that must have made Bones feel worse than he already did. It's a weak, vague apology, and Jim feels like a coward for saying it like that. But he's always been better with excuses than with requests for forgiveness, and he doesn't know how to say any of it without making things worse.

"I'm sorry too, kid. I wish…" Jim waits, but whatever it is, Bones doesn't seem to be able to put it into words any better than Jim can. "It doesn't matter. You need to put it behind you now. Get some rest."

Jim watches him walk away. The pain is gone, and with nothing to anchor him and no one to talk to, he can only close his eyes and drift.

* * *

><p>An hour later, Bones steps into his room again. Jim hopes that this time they'll be able to talk, and he'll somehow find the courage to say what he needs to say – <em>It's my fault<em> and _I didn't mean to _ and _I need you_ - but instead, Bones just checks his bandage and asks if he's thirsty. Jim nods. He sips through a straw, cooperates with the exam, and waits for the right time to speak, but it doesn't come. Bones seems subdued and careful around him, so unlike his usual blustery self.

When he asks Jim whether he wants to stay in a private recovery room or move out to the main Bay, Jim looks up at him, startled. He doesn't know this CMO who considers his preferences and gives him choices. There's a warning bell ringing in the back of his mind that says that Bones shouldn't be asking him what he wants, he should be _telling _him what's going to happen in no uncertain terms. He can't understand what Bones is trying to do. It's like he's trying to put together a puzzle, but some of the key pieces are missing and he can't see the whole picture.

But at any rate, he doesn't want to be alone with his thoughts anymore, even if it means that his crew will be able to see him lounging in a biobed wearing sickbay scrubs.

Being in the main Bay is a relief, in some ways. It's distracting. He can observe the medical staff as they interact with each other and treat the occasional crewman who drops by with a minor complaint. He can flirt with the nurses as they help him relieve himself or check his bandages. He doesn't object to any of the procedures, not in front of the nurses or orderlies, because, well, he's the _Captain_ and he has to save face. But his stomach is tying itself into its usual knot of anxiety every time one of them approaches him. They won't let him up off the bed, and he hates lying there, feeling so dependent and weak.

Bones isn't avoiding him, exactly. From Jim's vantage point in the corner bed, he can easily keep an eye on the doctor, and Bones is busy. Jim's used to hearing Bones answer him on the comm with short-tempered impatience ("What the hell do you need, Captain? I've got a sickbay to run!"), but it's the first time he's really had the opportunity to watch him go through a regular shift. Treating patients for minor injuries and problems. Checking reports. Wandering into the lab where he conducts research on some virus or medical miracle he's working on this week. He's brisk and authoritative with his staff, annoyed with anything less than top efficiency. And as Jim has come to expect, he doesn't coddle the patients.

Except for Jim. As promised, Bones comes by every three hours with a hypo. Jim is almost looking forward to the sharp stinging pain, but Bones administers it so gently that he barely feels it. Bones pats his shoulder, asks if he needs anything, and tells him he's looking good. Then he walks away again before Jim can even protest.

* * *

><p>By the afternoon, Jim's irritable and depressed, exhausted by the effort of maintaining a show of good humor in front of the med staff. And he's worried. There's nothing <em>wrong<em> with the way Bones is treating him, but it's just a little too kind, a little too solicitous. If Bones thinks he's so fragile that he'll break if Bones isn't _nice _to him, then he doesn't know Jim very well and that worries him. And if Bones needs the space because he can't handle being close to Jim right now, because he's angry and devastated by what happened, then that worries him too. They need to talk and there's no privacy here.

Spock comes by mid-beta shift. He doesn't come directly to Jim, but turns first to the CMO's office at the opposite end of sickbay. It's a good thing, because it gives Jim time to comb his fingers hastily through his hair, straighten his rumpled scrubs, and rearrange himself on the bed. He can't move much, but he shifts himself slowly so that he's lying on his side, propped up on his elbow, rather than flat on his back. It's embarrassing to be in this position again, stuck on a biobed while his First Officer comes for a visit, immaculate in his uniform and looking down on him calmly.

He remembers his last conversation with Spock, when he told him how scared he was about the surgery. Spock said something about Jim's strength of character and the definition of courage. Watching Spock now, Jim cringes a little inside, thinking about how when the time came, he was terrified, pleading with Bones to slow down and not to cut him. Thank God Spock didn't see _that_ part.

Spock exits Bones' office after a moment, and he's at Jim's side seconds later. "Captain," he says, looking Jim over calmly, "I am relieved to hear that the surgery was successful. Doctor McCoy has informed me that there were last-minute complications."

"I was lucky, Spock. And Bones is a great surgeon."

"Indeed. I am told that your recovery is proceeding on schedule and that you are being surprisingly cooperative."

Jim scowls reflexively. "Why is that surprising?"

Spock's eyebrow rises. "Is the anesthesia still affecting your cognitive processes? Do you not recall your abortive escape attempt from sickbay after your injuries on Starbase Twelve, or the time you insisted on feeding yourself while recovering from Rigellian Pox yet succeeded only in—"

"Never mind, Spock," he says quickly. No need to be reminded of all the times he's lost his dignity here. "My memory's fine. I'm just seeing what compliance feels like, for a change of pace."

"Most admirable."

"Is that all Bones had to say? I'm on the mend, a model patient?" He's curious; maybe Bones has let something slip to Spock that could clue him in on what's going on, since he's not telling Jim.

"For the most part. Although he did mention that you seemed… preoccupied." Spock lowers himself gracefully into the chair by the bed, and Jim notices, for the first time, that he's carrying something, a boxy leather case. Something inside it makes a clinking noise when he sets it on his lap.

"He won't let me have a PADD or even sit up yet. There's a lot of time to think."

"And you do not appreciate the opportunity to contemplate recent events without distraction?"

Jim laughs. "No. We're different that way, I guess. I don't do very well with so much enforced time to, uh… _contemplate_. I do my best thinking when I'm running. Or moving around, anyway. I get bored quickly."

"So I have noticed."

"I can't stand to lie around doing _nothing,_ that's all. And sickbay's not exactly conducive to meditation anyway."

"Then it is fortunate that I have brought something that may help you occupy your mind, if you are so inclined." He pops open the case, turning it around so that Jim can see the contents: several small, square boards, checked in lacquered polish, and two sets of intricately molded pieces in black and white.

"This is a 3D chess set," Jim says, nonplussed.

"Obviously, Captain." Spock is rapidly assembling the base and stand, twisting them together and attaching the boards at various heights.

"I'm not much of a player, Spock." Despite himself, he's intrigued by the shiny pieces, by the way the boards fan out, overlapping slightly. The set is obviously expensive and well cared for. "I probably wouldn't be any kind of challenge for you."

Spock doesn't even hesitate in his rapid placement of the pieces. "If you are unfamiliar with this version of the game, I will instruct you."

"I really don't think…" Spock is looking at him expectantly, and he sighs. "Look, I can't even sit up."

"I will place your pieces for you. You can see the board easily even from a reclining position. And you are, as you complained, unoccupied and bored."

"I've never even played the game on a real board," he admits. "Just on the nets."

"Then you _are _familiar with the rules?" Spock asks, waiting for Jim to nod in confirmation. "That will make this considerably easier."

Jim's never mentioned it to Spock, but chess was a passion of his when he was a kid, before he began his great rebellion. He would spend hours practicing openings and studying endgames, learning basic attacks and defenses, inventing new maneuvers. He'd tried 3D chess a few times on his PADD, but at the time, it seemed too complicated. He preferred to hone his skills on the standard version of the game. He began playing in virtual tournaments and did relatively well, but as his home situation worsened, he'd lost his focus, and eventually stopped playing altogether.

"It's been a long time. I haven't played chess in years, not since I was a kid. I wasn't very good at the 3D version."

"You may find that some of the more complex strategic reasoning comes to you more quickly now than it did in your youth. From what I have observed, you're quite suited to this game."

"Pool's really more my style, Spock. Or poker."

Spock ignores him. "You have an intuitive grasp of your opponent's strengths and weaknesses, and a capacity to calculate several moves in advance in order to evaluate the success of tactical maneuvers. Your move, Captain," he says gesturing toward the orderly line of white pieces on the bottom level.

_What the hell, _he thinks. Can't be any worse than lying here worrying.

It turns out to be a distraction, all right. At first Jim's hesitant, and his moves are inconsistent and disorganized. Spock points out his blunders, generously offering to let him "reconsider" the moves which would have finished the game in minutes. He improves quickly, although he's still not very sharp. The pain meds Bones has him on make it hard for him to concentrate. Spock doesn't seem disappointed, though. He keeps up a running commentary on the advantages and disadvantages of various moves and positions, and draws Jim's focus back when his attention wanders too obviously ("Captain, would you like me to repeat what I explained earlier about using your knight for simultaneous attacks?").

Jim never had Spock as an instructor back at the Academy, but he can see that he's a born teacher. Actually, it's just as well that Jim was never in one of his classes, because Spock's teaching style doesn't make much allowance for Jim's typical student behaviors. Like trying to distract the teacher from the subject matter, which Jim considers a legitimate chess tactic.

"Did I ever tell you about the time I won the Iowa City Poker Championship? It was ten years ago exactly. I wasn't really supposed to be able to enter, legally, but I hacked the entry site and—"

"At the age of seventeen? I was under the impression that gambling was illegal at that age."

"Well, _technically _that's true, but that's not the point, Spock, because once I got in, they recognized my outstanding skills, and-"

"Chess has many advantages over poker. There are no age restrictions, no element of chance, and," Spock replies icily, "no incentive to lie."

"Bluff," Jim corrects. "It's called bluffing. It's a time-honored tradition in poker."

"There is no place for bluffing in chess. It requires only skill and concentration. Please focus on the game."

"Right," Jim replies, moving his bishop up a level. "See what you think of _that_."

"_That _is not a wise move."

Jim smiles as confidently as he can, while surreptitiously scanning the boards for something he's missed.

"Perhaps you should reconsider. You are placing your rook in jeopardy."

"Now _you're _bluffing. I'm not gonna let you psych me out, Spock. Check in two moves."

"Not this time." Spock's knight seems to swoop down out of nowhere. "Checkmate in three."

"Shit." Jim stares glumly at the boards, then tips over his king, symbolically ceding the game. "Sorry, didn't see that coming."

"Clearly."

"Guess I need a little more practice, or a little less pain medication, or something."

"On the contrary, you did quite well for a novice. If you like, we can play again tomorrow." Spock begins dismantling the boards, packing the pieces carefully into their padded slots in the case.

Jim grins. "Maybe by then Bones will let me sit up." And maybe he can get his hands on a PADD and study some basic 3D tactics.

"If I might make a suggestion, Jim. You seem to be overly concerned with defending and holding onto all your pieces."

Jim squints up at him in confusion. "I'm just trying to keep all my options. Those pieces might be valuable in the long run."

"Of course that may be the case, depending on the dynamic that develops on the board." Spock's eyes bore into him, and Jim is suddenly aware that there is more going on in this conversation than a friendly tip about chess. "But as the game progresses, one must be prepared to sacrifice certain pieces as part of an overall strategy."

_Oh, fuck. _So that's what this was about. Chess as a metaphor for life. He should have known.

"I'll try to remember that," he says neutrally, but he feels a gut-level resistance to Spock's advice. He doesn't like the idea of sacrificing anything or anybody - even a chess piece - to save his ass, strategy be damned. Bones is always telling him to stop taking chances with his own safety, but as far as he's concerned, if there's going to be any sacrificing, _he's_ going to be the one doing it.

"When you are attacked," Spock continues as if they're really discussing game tactics, "you must decide whether the piece is worth defending. It may be preferable to allow your piece to be captured, rather than waste valuable resources defending it."

"I know that," Jim says tightly. He doesn't want to hear this.

"I have not finished." There's a touch of impatience in Spock's tone, and Jim knows that he's not going to drop it until he makes his point, whatever it is. "You should also remember that a pawn often needs to be sacrificed in order to exchange it for a piece of higher value." Jim's heart has started beating faster. Spock doesn't look up at the monitor above the bed, but obviously he can hear the soft, accelerating beeps

"I get it, Spock." Jim rolls onto his back, staring at the ceiling. But he doesn't, not really. Spock's implying something about his loss, but he doesn't have a clue as to what he's gained from all this. If Spock knows, he should _say so_, instead of speaking in riddles.

"Jim… the loss of the material value of the pawn is often compensated for in the long term by the gain of a better strategic position."

There's a long pause between them. A better strategic position? Fuck _that._ Spock may think he's gained something important, but Jim sure as hell doesn't know what it could be. All that he seems to have accomplished in the last seven weeks is losing his dignity and his sense of control, ruining his relationship with Bones, and destroying a fanciful dream that he didn't even know he had.

"Thanks for the game," Jim says stiffly.

"I only ask that you consider this. Rest and recover, Captain." He rises to his feet, grasping the chess case firmly in his hand, and walks out.

* * *

><p>It's quiet in Jim's quarters.<p>

Sure, he could tell the computer to call up some music, or play the daily audio transmission from the Federation News Network, but somehow, the silence seems appropriate.

Bones released him this morning. It's the first time he's ever been released from sickbay without needing to argue with Bones. In fact, there was no arguing the entire time he was there. Bones didn't give him much of a chance. Jim slept a lot, and Bones was busy. Eventually, the man left sickbay to take a shower and sleep... which Jim only found out from the night staff, because Bones didn't bother to let him know that he was leaving. And then, when Bones came back on shift, he'd been almost shockingly kind. Considerate, permissive, non-intrusive. Jim had a say in everything.

It was damned peculiar. Unnerving.

And now, barely forty hours after Jim nearly bled out on the table - _don't think about it _- he's back in his quarters, alone. With plenty of time to think.

He's cleaning.

After everything that's happened, with the dozens of broken thoughts swimming in his mind, he's cleaning his quarters. It's so ludicrous in its normalcy that it almost makes him laugh. Almost, but not quite. True, Bones told him to relax, but he's restless. He's only a little bit sore, and Bones said that everything was absolutely stable, so there's no reason why he _can't_ do a bit of light housekeeping. And for some reason, the shoes and clothes he usually leaves lying on the floor are bothering him.

He gathers up the clothes and throws them into the laundry hatch, and lines his boots up by the door. As he does, he can't stop thinking of Bones, always telling him to do those things, and he can't quite understand why he feels the need to tidy up now. Absently, he moves on to menial straightening... the blanket on the bed, his books, his few mementos. It's not that they're out of place; it's just something to do with his hands, which seem far too empty and idle. On the one hand, he'd love to go back on duty immediately, to keep himself occupied and distracted. But the fact is, even if he wasn't on a forty-eight-hour duty restriction, he's not really ready to face anyone right now.

He's had plenty of time in sickbay to think - far too much, if he's honest with himself - but he still hasn't been able to wrap his head around everything that's happened. Sure, he can do it in a detached sort of way: he was abducted by aliens, used in medical experiments, and artificially impregnated and violated. God, it sounds like a bad headline from a cheap tabloid, but as always, reality proves that it really _is _stranger than fiction.

He lived as a pregnant man for almost two months while desperately trying to keep his shit together and be the captain of a Federation starship. Then he suffered complications and almost died from them.

And now, it's over. He's alive. A bit sore and tired, but relatively speaking, he feels fine. The final physical traces of his ordeal are gone. He made it. He's been through the gauntlet and has come out the other end more or less unscathed, bent but not broken. The Antosians didn't defeat him.

He should be happy.

_It was a boy_.

Suddenly, his knees are shaking and weak, as if they can't hold up his weight any longer. And then he's on the floor, on his hands and knees, and the carpet is blurry in front of his eyes. He's _not crying, goddammit_, but his eyes feel hot and wet and he doesn't even know why.

_It's the hormones_, he tells himself, in a vague attempt to salvage his bruised ego. Bones said that his hormones would be out of balance for a few days until they stabilize.

_You'll get your life back,_ Bones told him. _Things will go back to normal._ But _normal_ is something he almost can't remember. _Normal_ doesn't exist anymore. Something's happened to his confidence, to his belief in his own invincibility. Something's missing from his life that he never realized was missing before.

_It was a boy_.

The door chimes, and he wipes the back of his hand hastily over his eyes. Shit, he doesn't need anybody to see him like this. He sits quietly on the floor, trying to get his breathing under control.

He ignores the second chime as well. Maybe whoever it is will take the hint and go away. He's allowed a little privacy as he recovers, isn't he? If it's Rand, she'll probably give up and come back later. Spock will be more persistent, but he'll try the comm next. If it's Bones-

Without warning, the door slides open. From his position on the floor, Jim can see a pair of boots take two determined steps into the room, and then stop. Jim doesn't need to look up to know who it is.

Bones and his fucking medical override.

"Think you're overusing that privilege, doctor," he says testily, not looking up to meet Bones' eyes. He doesn't want his bloodshot eyes and his expression to give him away, but it doesn't fucking matter because his nose is stuffy and his voice is just a bit choked. Bones can always see right through him, anyway.

There are more footsteps and a softly muttered _goddammit_ and hands on his shoulders. He looks up, finally, to find Bones kneeling next to him, gazing back at him sadly.

Trying to save face, he forces a laugh. "Don't force me to use my lockout code just to get a little privacy, Bones. That override's supposed to be for emergencies."

"I'll use it at my discretion. You should answer your door. Anyway, I was just coming by to see how you were doing. "

Jim snorts, then sniffs to keep his nose from running. "Yeah. Well, take a look. Clearly, I'm doing just great."

"Does the incision hurt?" There's a twist of clinical concern, and for a moment, Bones' eyes roam over him, looking for tells of hidden pain. "Feeling sick? Anything?"

"Nothing physical," Jim says through a tight throat. "Nothing I need a doctor for."

The clinical frown softens. "What about just me?"

Jim nods slowly. "Yeah, I think that would be good."

"I thought so." Bones stands and holds out a hand. "Come on, kid."

He's not sure why he's got no inclination to resist, or why his usual stoicism that would have him waving off the helping hand never shows itself, but he grabs Bones' hand and lets himself be hauled to his feet. He's deposited softly on his couch, and watches dully as Bones goes over to the drink slot and orders up two cups of tea.

"How about a splash of Kentucky's finest in that?" Jim says, trying for levity. "Isn't that the southern cure-all?"

He's expecting Bones to give him a lecture about not drinking so soon after leaving sickbay, but instead, the cup of tea is merely placed in his hands without apology. "Cure-all, not fix-everything. Subtle difference. I know you, Jim, and you really don't want to drink right now."

He feels inexplicably comforted at being read so easily. "Maybe you're right." He wraps his hands around the cup, noting with detachment how the palms of his hands ache with the just-slightly-too-hot burn. It's satisfying.

Almost as satisfying as the heavy weight of Bones' body settling onto the couch next to him. Not quite touching, but close. "So, Jim... are you gonna tell me what just happened there?"

All Jim can do is shrug. "Nothing. Hormones, right? You said my hormones would be fucked up for a few days."

"Jim," Bones says in a level tone, "your levels are a bit uneven, meaning you might get a pimple or two as the last of the artificial hormones work their way out of your system. That's not what's going on here and you know it. Hormones don't bring grown men to their knees... at least not you. "

"Not me," he parrots with bitter irony, then shakes his head. "There are a lot of things that shouldn't have happened to me. They did anyway."

"Jim."

He blows a tight breath through pursed lips. "I was just... I was cleaning. And thinking." He stares straight ahead, only seeing Bones in his peripheral vision.

"I can see you were cleaning." Bones takes a sip of his own drink. "The thing is, except for your clothes, which you insist on dumping on the floor for some inexplicable reason, this room's already about as clean as you could make it. You'd pass a dormitory inspection with flying colors. So if you're cleaning, I'm gonna guess it's because you're bored... or you're about ready to jump out of your skin."

Jim snorts. "As if _you're_ acting like yourself, either."

"Oh? Care to elaborate?"

Bones' words are so falsely calm, so carefully measured, that it sparks something in Jim's chest. He puts the cup of tea on the table and turns in place on the couch, pointedly ignoring the ache in his stomach as he twists too quickly. "Just like that, Bones! You haven't been acting right since I woke up from surgery. You've been... _shit_, you've been... I don't know what to call it! Calm and professional and _distant. _You usually yell at me for every dumb thing I do that puts me in your sickbay, and you bully me around more than the rest of your staff combined. And maybe I hate it, but I'm _used _to it. It's familiar."

Bones is scowling at him. "I don't _bully_ you, and neither does my staff. You're typically the most uncooperative patient on the ship, dammit. I need to make sure you follow my orders for your own good."

"But that isn't what's been happening! You've been tip-toeing around me like I'm going to break. Since when do you give me any choice in what happens to me when I'm stuck on a biobed? I don't know what's gotten into you. Or why."

Bones is looking at him, and at first Jim thinks he's still holding onto that clinical, infuriating calmness... until he realizes with shocking clarity that it's all a front. Behind that calm expression, something in Bones' eyes is haunted. Horribly, achingly haunted.

"Bones?"

He watches with dismay as Bones lets out a ragged sigh, and his stiff posture crumbles a bit. "I'm sorry, Jim."

The change in Bones' demeanor is so sudden and unexpected that Jim feels a bit lost. "What for? Bones, what are you -"

"I am so goddamned sorry." There's a hint of moisture at the corners of Bones' eyes, but he blinks it back as quickly as it appears. "I did what I had to do, Jim. I kept you alive, but what I did to you... the way it happened... I'm so sorry."

Jim feels a cold flash run through him. "Wait, slow down. What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"I knew you were terrified, and you had every right to be, but there was no time."

The words are triggering something within him that he doesn't want to pursue. He scrambles for the easiest thing to say. "Shit, I know that, Bones. You told me. I understand..."

But Bones' frown is growing deeper, and he keeps talking. "It had to have been like going through what happened on Antos all over again, and _I did it to you_, and -"

"It's not like what happened on Antos," Jim protests, even though he knows it's a lie. He doesn't want to deal with the fact that Bones put him back into that nightmare. But his thoughts flash back involuntarily to the too-bright overhead light in sickbay that seemed to sear his eyes, a horrifying echo of what happened to him on the planet, and the helpless panic he'd felt as Bones and his staff had surrounded him and held him down. "It was _you_, not them," he tries again, sounding unconvinced even to his own ears. "And sure I was... well yeah, I was scared, but I was okay in the end. I didn't want to... I didn't..."

Jim's eyes go wide as he catches himself, and the implications of his reflexive thought hit him like ice water. It's something he hasn't thought about since the day he was rescued. Something that feels too close to the precipice he's been standing on for too long. "_Fuck._"

"What?"

"Never mind," Jim says, shaking his head dumbly. "It's not something important."

"Say it anyway."

His throat feels too tight. "I gave up," he says reluctantly. "Back on Antos."

Bones' eyebrows wrinkle in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"I told you about that third session... that I just wanted it to end, that I couldn't fight anymore." It's so hard to get the words out. "But I didn't really explain. I meant that I completely gave up. I knew I couldn't last much longer and I _wanted_ it to be over. By the time you got there, I'd already accepted it. I was ready to die. I wanted to die."

In a rush, the memory is back like a visceral thing - the pain, the near-blindness, the indistinct noises, and the gut-wrenching sense of futility. He's right back there, and he knows that he lost some vital part of himself that day when he'd accepted that he was going to die. Naked, broken, starved, and alone.

Bones doesn't say anything, but a hand reaches out and squeezes Jim's knee.

"It's okay, Jim."

"You don't understand. I didn't expect to live, but I did. And then when I found out that they'd implanted an embryo… it was like they put me right back there. And every time something else happened... all of your tests, the clot, and now this... it brought me right back there. I think maybe some part of me has been waiting to die this whole time."

"Jesus," Bones breathes. "Kid, you can't -"

But Jim waves him off, mentally cutting off that whole line of thought. It's too close to something ugly and real, and he can't go there yet. "Don't, Bones. It's not like that. It's just... sometimes I feel like I never escaped. That the hell just continued as long as that embryo was there. I just wanted it to be gone and I was so fucking _angry _at you because you wouldn't – couldn't – get rid of it for me."

"I know. Believe me, I could see what it did to you. What _I _was doing to you. The waiting, and all those invasive tests -"

Jim gives an involuntary shudder. "It wasn't your fault."

"That's not the point. This has been hell for both of us, but nothing compares to the fact that you went through it first-hand. It took me too damned long to find a way to fix it, and that whole time... I knew I was hurting you all over again. I could see it in your eyes every time I touched you. After everything they did to you... I just made it worse. And I didn't give you _any_ choice about it, even though I knew just being in sickbay – just being near _me_ when I had to act as your doctor – was the last thing you wanted."

He nods. Rationally, he knows that Bones was only doing his job. But emotions, as he's been reminded too often, are irrational and highly illogical. Because Bones is right, and as much as he's tried to fight it, there's a knot of bitterness and blame inside him. It's almost a relief to admit it. There's an immature, resentful part of him that is furious at the way Bones has been monitoring him, medicating him, _hurting _him.

"You couldn't have done anything differently," he says finally. It's not a real statement of forgiveness, and the look of disappointment in Bones' eyes makes him wince.

"Maybe not, but dammit, I'd give anything not to have been the one who put you through all of that. So... after you woke up from surgery, I tried to give you some space. Consider what _you_ wanted, for once. Let you recover..." Bones' voice trails off as he pinches the bridge of his nose, then scrubs a hand over his face. The gesture is achingly familiar. "I swore I'd help you, that I'd give you a choice, but I couldn't even do that." He swallows thickly. "God, Jim... I don't even know if I can say this."

"Bones, just talk to me."

He shakes his head for a moment, and he looks like he's about to snap from the tension in his shoulders. "You were begging me, Jim. Pleading with me. Yeah, I knew you were scared, but... you fought against the sedatives like you were drowning, mumbling about saving the baby until you finally went under. Over and over again, Jim... _Save the baby_." A visible shudder runs through him. "But there was nothing I could do."

"I know, Bones. The baby was already dead." Jim feels his throat tighten painfully. "The baby was already dead," he says again, but this time, it's a whisper: tight, choked, and raspy.

"I know." Bones' eyes are distant and glazed. "I held it in my hands, Jim. I... it was so small, and..." He closes his eyes. "Doesn't matter. It was already gone. Never really had a chance."

The words hang between them, inescapable and blunt.

After a minute, Bones clears his throat. "I never thought you'd actually want to keep the pregnancy. The baby. I thought it was just hypothetical. The what-if. Just to see how far your ability to choose would really go. After what the Antosians did to you, I couldn't imagine you wanting to keep it."

"But I did." And the proof of that, he knows, is how miserable he's feeling now.

"_Why_, Jim?"

Jim really doesn't know how to reply to that. He's been thinking about those hazy thoughts he had in the moments leading up to... everything. Mostly, he remembers feeling defiant: of Starfleet and other people's expectations, of his own muddled past and the best medical advice. Angry, but also protective.

It wasn't like he had some desire to be a father - _mother_, his subconscious mocks lightly - or to put himself through any further hell. And fuck, maybe it had all been because he was delirious, already starting to suffer from the insidious clots that were clogging up his blood. The madness of a dying man. Or maybe it had come from some deeper piece of his psyche that he didn't even understand.

"It was ours," Jim finally says, not quite sure where the words are coming from. "Fuck the Antosians. Screw Starfleet and medical risks and medical impossibility, Bones, it was _ours_. You can't tell me that you didn't think of that." He glances up at Bones, hoping to glean some insight into what the doctor is thinking.

Bones' face is unreadable. "Yes, Jim, of course I thought of that."

"It still scared the shit out of me, but it was _alive_, Bones. The Antosians almost killed me, but here was this healthy embryo, and it was _ours. _Yours and mine. And I couldn't keep thinking that I wanted it gone."

"What you wanted was to be free of what the Antosians did to you. Don't feel guilty about that. You didn't ask for any of this." Bones sounds so damned reasonable it hurts.

"Look, Bones, we had... we have... something good, right?" _Don't use the past tense_, he scolds himself. _You've got to try to salvage this._ "I've got my ship and you've got your sickbay and we've got each other. We didn't need anything else. There was never anything else... and then there _was_. And maybe the Admirals would have had a fit, but we could have... it could have been..."

Bones nods. "So you decided to try and keep it."

"Not that any of it was really my decision in the end," he says darkly. "It died. It seems like that should be trivial in the grand scheme of things. It was so small and caused so many problems. But it doesn't feel trivial."

"It's not trivial, Jim. Not at all."

Bones is giving him a look of bitter empathy, and Jim can't quite bring himself to face it. He leans back heavily against the sofa cushions, staring at his empty hands, upturned in his lap. He used to think his hands were strong, capable. Now, he feels as though he let something immeasurably valuable slip through his fingers, and all that's left is him and his empty hands.

"The fetus... fuck it, the _baby_ died," he says. But he lived. He should be celebrating that fact. He's alive and recovering. But when he says it like that, in such stark contrast, it hurts like a fresh wound. Or maybe an old wound that started on Antos and has been slowly festering until it needed be ripped wide open again in order to heal. Yeah, he gave up on Antos. He'd expected to die, and somehow, that's been following him ever since. And now that the tiny spark of life has fizzled out - the only thing the Antosians had done that wasn't purely destructive - and all that's left is the hollow shell of himself. "I survived," he whispers.

"You _did_ survive, Jim, and I'll thank the fates every goddamned day for that simple fact. If the loss of an embryo is what it took to keep you alive, then I think that's a fair trade."

"Seems like a shit trade to me," he says darkly.

There's silence for a moment, and when Jim looks over, Bones is staring at him with an expression of anguished disbelief. "You'd rather have died?"

"That's not what I meant." It's defensiveness and backpedaling, but even to his own ears, it's not quite a denial. It's just that it doesn't seem fair that this potential life, this innocent child, is gone and all that's left is Jim, broken and damaged.

"Dammit, Jim, you almost bled out in my O.R. two days ago, after you almost died on Antos! What do you think it would have been like if I'd finally lost you? Is that what you wanted?"

"Of course not! But it was... I didn't want..." His eyes are blurring again. He blinks back the unshed tears clouding his vision, but there's a firm hand on his shoulder and Bones is looking back at him. "It was ours."

"Stop, Jim." Bones voice is firm, and Jim takes a shaky breath. He rubs his eyes, trying to get his vision to clear.

Bones nods his approval. "I know it was ours. Believe me. From the minute I got the result of the DNA analysis, I haven't been able to forget it. I knew it was a boy. I knew it was there, and alive. No matter how much I tried to stop thinking about it, I kept coming up with names."

"You did?" Jim chokes out.

"Yeah. But I knew it wasn't going to happen. And I knew that the only possible survivor from this was going to be you... _if _I could even manage to save you at all." His expression pinches tightly. "Good thing some jackass taught me not to believe in no-win scenarios."

Jim nods vaguely. "Yeah, good thing. But... Bones? Did you want to keep it?"

Bones' breath visibly catches, and his mouth opens, but no words come out.

"Please... just tell me. Did you want it? Don't tell me that it was dangerous or unnatural or risky or the product of an assault and..." He hesitates, then says it. "…and _rape_. I know that, but dammit, did you want it?"

Bones presses his lips together, and finally, slowly, he nods. "Maybe. On some level. Not now, but someday..."

Something in Jim's chest twists. "I took that from you," Jim says, more to himself than Bones.

"No!" Bones' grip on his shoulder tightens. "You didn't take anything from me, so get that damned fool idea out of your head." Jim can feel himself shrinking away, and Bones loosens his grip without letting go, and his tone softens. "Listen... in a perfect world, Jim, we could have everything we want without having to... to sacrifice something in the process. Sure, part of me wanted it. In the end, there was no decision to be made, but even if there was, other things are more important."

"Yeah?" Jim licks his lips, which feel too dry. The word _sacrifice _reverberates within him, eerily echoing something Spock was trying to tell him. "Like what?" Maybe Bones knows something he doesn't.

Bones gives him a weak shadow of his usual scowl, then reaches up to brush a thumb across Jim's cheekbone. "What do you think, kid?"

"I don't know," he says, feeling depleted of energy and utterly out of ideas. "Tell me."

For a moment, Jim's sure that Bones is going to clam up as usual, or tell Jim to stop being a moron, but he just says quietly, "_You're_ more important to me, Jim. What we are to each other is more important."

"Sentimental asshole," Jim says, choking up for a different reason now.

"Reckless, self-sacrificing idiot."

"It's what I do best."

Bones offers a broken smile. "Try not to do it so often, okay?"

"I'll try." He lets out a breath, and suddenly seems so much more tired than he did just a moment ago. Their attempt at their usual banter seems wrong somehow, like a hasty bandage over a wound that hasn't healed. They've said so much, and it's all spinning uncomfortably in his head. Bones is smiling at him, but it seems forced. They're okay, but it's still not right. Nothing's right. Not really. Damn, his head hurts.

"You look like you ought to lie down," Bones says gently.

"I've been lying down nonstop for two days," Jim protests, but he doesn't really mean it. Even if things are still abnormal and unsettled, the notion of Bones telling him to rest and take care of himself is too familiar and easy, so he lets Bones pull him to his feet.

"Are you in any pain? Feeling okay?"

"I'm fine, Bones."

"And I'm a tap-dancing Klingon. I discharged you with those pills for a reason."

He can't fully stop the grin that creeps up on him as he follows Bones to the bedroom and accepts the pill pressed into his hand with minimal complaint. He doesn't feel surprised when Bones goes over to the dresser and pulls out some of his own clothes - boxers and a t-shirt, his usual nightclothes. Bones didn't ask, and Jim finds that deeply comforting. It says that Bones still feels like his place is with Jim, and maybe they're okay. They have to be okay.

Holding tight to that idea, Jim pulls his shirt off tosses it absently on the floor. When he hears a slight chuckle, he looks over at Bones in confusion. "What?"

Bones merely shakes his head. "Nothing, Jim. Nothing at all."

A few minutes later, pulling on the last reserves of his energy, he's climbing into bed, and Bones is joining him. It's not that everything is back to normal, but it seems okay.

* * *

><p><strong>AN:** We deeply apologize for going so long between updates this time. RL intervened and both of us have been swamped with distractions... But we're back, and we _promise_ to get the epilogue up within the next few days.

Please, please review! Go ahead, make our day...


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